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MY 

SAINT PATRICK 







Saint Patrick slowly sat up. 


MY 

SAINT PATRICK 


By 

ALAN MICHAEL BUCK 

•) 


Pictures by 

RICHARD BENNETT 


> > 
> > > 


1937 

LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY 

Boston New York 

copy 5 l 



Copyright 1937 

BY LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ 
produced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 


• «» 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

- - SEP 17 1937 

©Cl A 1 09470 


TO 

My American Grandmother 
Eisabeth G. Buck 









FOREWORD 


My Saint Patrick is not in the strict sense of the 
word a life of that saint. It is a story based on fact, 
bolstered by the theories of scholars and pillowed 
by your writer’s imagination. It is, to be more 
exact, a picture in words of Saint Patrick as your 
writer after much study has come to visualize him; 
hence its title. 



















' 







CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

Young Saint Patrick 

• • 

PAGE 

. 13 

II. 

The Threat of Invasion . 

• • 

. 21 

III. 

An Unexpected Fall 

• • 

. 29 

IV. 

Enslaved .... 

• • 

. 37 

V. 

Sold into Slavery . 

• • 

. 45 

VI. 

Saint Patrick Begins a New 

Life . 

. 52 

VII. 

The New Friend 

• • 

. 60 

VIII. 

Deliverance 

• • 

. 67 

IX. 

Miracle in the Desert . 

• • 

. 80 

X. 

Coquina’s Tidings 

• • 

. 93 

XI. 

Betrayed .... 

• • 

. 104 

XII. 

Ireland at Last 

• • 

. 116 

XIII. 

The End of Miliucc maccu-Buain 

. 126 

XIV. 

RUS AND BENNEN 

• • 

. 136 

XV. 

The Birthday of the Year 

• • 

. 146 

XVI. 

A Contest of Miracles . 

• • 

. 156 

XVII. 

The Idol .... 

• • 

. 170 

XVIII. 

The Journey with Enda 

• • 

. 179 

XIX. 

On Cruachin Aigli . 

• • 

. 191 

XX. 

Ethne the Fair and Fedlem 

the Ruddy 198 

XXI. 

In Disgrace 

• • 

. 205 

XXII. 

The Ridge of Willows . 

• • 

. 212 

XXIII. 

Leinster and Munster 

• • 

. 224 

XXIV. 

Heaven Claims Its Own . 

• • 

. 233 


zi 





CHAPTER ONE 

Young Saint Patrick 


One fine, May morning in the year of our Lord 
three hundred and eighty-seven, the strong-raft¬ 
ered kitchen of a low, Roman-style villa in Wales 
was in a state of wild confusion. 

Really, it looked as if a contrary wind came 
down the chimney and turned everything upside 
down for devilment. 

The table, stacked with pots and pans and dirty 
dishes, stood pushed back from the center of the 
room against a windowless, stone wall. Soap suds, 
oozing in bubbles down the wood sides of an 
overflowing tub, formed pools of water on the red, 
brick floor. Yesterday’s ashes lay scattered white 
about the hearth to be tracked all over the place 
by anybody venturing near the fire which blazed, 

13 





14 


My Saint Patrick 


hidden from sight, behind a towel placed purposely 
on back of a chair in front of it. 

Strange as it may seem, neither of the two women 
in the room seemed the least bit put out by the 
sorry state of their surroundings. 

Conchessa, the woman of the house, was so busy 
tending what was in the tub, it is very doubtful 
—nay, it is certain—she did not notice how the 
place looked at all. 

Coquina, the cook, on the other hand was well 
aware of the disorder since later in the day she 
would have to set it to rights. Still and all, it did 
not bother her. The business of lending her mis¬ 
tress a hand was not distasteful to her. This, de¬ 
spite the fact that the tub’s contents were solely 
responsible for the upset. 

For quite some time now, a silence had been 
on the two women. Evidently, the work in hand 
called for deep concentration, care and quiet. Mys¬ 
terious cries, splashings and gurglings from the tub 
subscribed that such indeed was the case. At last, 
Conchessa spoke. 

“Hand me the towel, Coquina.” 

Reaching over to the chair before the fire, 
Coquina’s cheeks glistened and gleamed in the fire¬ 
light like copper saucepans on polishing day. 

“Is it warm enough, do you think, Mam?” she 
asked. 

Conchessa pressed the towel to her cheek, test¬ 
ing it. 



__ Young Saint Patrick 15 

“Oh, yes, Coquina; plenty warm; you can hand 
him to me now.” 

Groaning faintly—the voice of her rheumatism 

Coquina bent over the tub, dipping her large, 
rough hands deep down in bubbling suds. “Up- 
sadaisy!” she muttered, as she straightened up. 

In her arms, a baby squirmed. 

With a terrifying scream of protest, this strange 
yield of the tub disappeared in to the folds of the 
waiting, warm towel on Conchessa’s lap. 

“There now, there now; Mother’s boy musn’t 
carry on so, you know,” Conchessa whispered 
soothingly in a low, sweet voice. 

But “Mother’s boy” did carry on so; he screamed 
blue murder. However, to Conchessa, this did 
not seem to be anything unusual. Judging by her 
placid face, you would gather that she was used 
to Saint Patrick raising a hullaballo after his bath. 

But to suggest that Saint Patrick was nothing 
but “a cry baby” would be to do him an injustice. 

It happened one day and he lying the cradle, 
idly staring the rafters, that there was born in 
him a wish for a more exciting life. Heretofore, his 
days had been all of a dull sameness: sleep, eat, 
bathe and sleep some more. That sort of thing, 
he told himself, could not go on forever. Lord, he 
was going on two! He measured up to his father’s 
knee already. 

So what happened was: he made plans. 



16 


My Saint Patrick 


If he did, he had to bide his time with them; 
for, it was the way his mother watched over him 
more closely than ever, almost as if she knew what 
he was up to. 

Came a day though when his mother looked pre¬ 
occupied, as if with other problems on her mind. 
As a matter of fact, Coquina had smashed a pre¬ 
cious Roman urn to smithereens that very morn¬ 
ing and she dusting. Like a seasoned conspirator, 
Saint Patrick seized his opportunity and started 
yawning the way his mother would think him tired 
out, which, sure enough, she did and she began to 
sing a lullaby: 

Sleep my baby , sleep; 

May your dreams be sweet , 

Sleep my baby , sleep, 

Tra, la la, la la. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, Saint Patrick closed his 
eyes, breathing softly, rythmically. Feeling certain 
that he was asleep, “Now, I really must speak to 
Coquina about that urn,” Conchessa told herself. 
“It was too, too careless of her all together.” 

Quietly, thoughtfully and frowning, she rose out 
of her sitting and on tip-toe left the room. 

No sooner had his mother gone than Saint Pat¬ 
rick came to life. Off went the warm blankets so 
lovingly tucked in and out of the cradle with him 
and he falling all over himself with excitement. 

Yonder was the door to the farmyard. Walking 



Young Saint Patrick 


17 


on eggs, as it were, he crossed the kitchen towards 
it, pausing for a minute in its slanting shadow to 
look out. Standing king-like in the middle of the 
yard, he could see a red and black and gold-sheen¬ 
ing rooster. 

Lord, what a handsome fellow, he thought. 

Feeling itself admired, the rooster stood high on 
its toes, stretched its neck forward, flapped its 
wings and crowed. 

“Kick-a-dee, kick-a-dee, kick-a-dee-keeeeeeeeee- 
eeeee-O!” it crowed. 

Saint Patrick trembled. 

The rooster, almost as big as himself but not 
quite, looked awfully fierce when it opened its beak 
wide like that. 

He wasn’t at all sure that he hadn’t better go 
back to his cradle and safety. But no; he decided 
he hadn’t had any fun yet. So what he did was 
this: 

He mustered his courage, bravely stepped from 
the shelter of the doorway and pattered along the 
south side of the yard, taking care, at the same 
time, to steer clear of the rooster. This brought 
him in sight of the duckpond, nestling in the far 
corner, near the fence, dividing the yard from the 
fields beyond. 

Plainly, he could see the ducks standing on their 
heads in the water, bobbing backward and forward 
the way you would think they were on the verge 
of toppling over; a thing they never did. 



18 


My Saint Patrick 


Alas, when Saint Patrick came close alongside 
the pond, one of the ducks—a white feathered 
drake with yellow eyes spitting fire, it was—drew 
its head out of the water and, levelling it like a 
gun, hissed a horrible, sneery hiss at him. 

Now, not alone trembling as in the case of the 
rooster, but terrified out of his wits into the bargain, 
he drew back, stumbled, miraculously regained his 
footing, and fled as fast as his legs would carry him 
to the opposite side of the yard. 

There, he paused, not knowing what to do. The 
rooster was now between him and the house, the 
ducks cut off retreat to the fields. 

Och, he was in a fine pickle. 

It seemed there was nothing else for it but to 
call his mother. Just as he was about to do so, 
however, a sad, lowing sound came to his ear. Like 
a cow mooing very far away, it sounded. But it 
was not far away; it was near at hand, of that he 
was certain. 

What in the world could it be? 

Curiosity killed his fear. He simply had to find 
out. 

In back of him, in an unwavering straight line, 
stood six, skillfully thatched outhouses. They 
would bear looking into, he reasoned. 

The first, a cowhouse, he found empty and not 
very clean. The second was empty too. In the 
third, a cart rested on its shafts beside his father’s 
chariot. The fourth was filled with tackling and 



Young Saint Patrick 


19 


harness of all sorts; the fifth ... in the fifth, on 
a bed of golden yellow straw, stood a little heifer 
calf and it bawling its head off for its mother that 
was out grazing the fields. 

Tickled pink with the discovery, Saint Patrick 
pressed himself close against the gate, innocently 
placing his chubby, little fingers between the bars. 
All at once, the calf brightened up. With a happy 
look lighting its liquid, brown eyes, it came towards 
the gate. 

Saint Patrick stood his ground. 

Closer came the calf, now reaching out its neck, 
now sniffing as if to convince itself of his presence. 

So as to leave no doubt at all in its mind, Saint 
Patrick pressed nearer the gate. 

Foolish move! 

All of a sudden the calf lunged forward and 
before he could withdraw them, it had his fingers 
right inside its warm, pink, dribbly mouth. Scared, 
he screamed; at the top of his voice he screamed. 

Naturally his mother came running, fear, worry 
and distraction all met together in three wrinkles 
on her brow. 

“What is it? What is it?” she cried out and 
she running. 

Meanwhile the calf, frightened by his screams, 
let go Saint Patrick’s fingers and retreated back 
into the cool shadows of the outhouse. 

By the time his mother arrived, only by his 
saliva covered fingers could she tell what had 



20 


My Saint Patrick 


happened. Her fears at once allayed, she laughed 
a silvery little laugh and gathering her still trem¬ 
bling offspring into her arms, what she told him 
was: “Calves never eat little boys, but never! They 
just take your fingers to show they are hungry.” 

That restored Saint Patrick’s lost courage in 
part but it is the strange thing, ever afterwards 
he was well content to lie in the cradle till the 
passing seasons grew him a bit and his mother 
thought it safe for him to be about on his own. 



CHAPTER TWO 
The Threat of Invasion 


When you are no longer a baby but able to be 
abroad by yourself, that means school; at least, 
it did for Saint Patrick. 

In the late afternoon of a colorful day in the 
season of leaf-fall, Calpurnius, Saint Patrick’s 
father, who for some time had been looking for 
his son, came upon him at length and he feeding 
fresh, warm milk to a cat in the outhouse where 
the cows were being milked. 

“My boy,” said Calpurnius, placing a firm hand 
on Saint Patrick’s shoulder and using the serious 
voice fathers keep for special occasions, “my boy,” 
said he, “you are now of an age to go to school.” 

“What? . . . But . . . to . . . school?” Saint 
Patrick spluttered, forgetting all about the cat that 
went on lapping as if nothing at all had happened. 

Calpurnius smothered a smile. 

“Come now,” he cautioned, “no nonsense, young 
man.” 

“But I’m only five, Father,” Saint Patrick pro¬ 
tested. 


21 



22 


My Saint Patrick 


“Only five, is it? Well, let me tell you, at five a 
boy ought to be a year in school already.” 

“Did you go to school at five, Father?” Saint 
Patrick’s voice sounded suspiciously innocent. 

“Did I? At five? Why, bless my soul!” Cal- 
purnius stammered, taken off guard. 

“Did you, Father?” Saint Patrick persisted. 

This time, his father was ready for him. “Cer¬ 
tainly, I went to school at five; how curious you 
are,” he said crossly. 

Saint Patrick’s mouth fell. 

“And let me tell you,” continued his father, 
“you’re going to school at five too. You’ll start 
tomorrow.” 

Not a word, one way or the other from Saint 
Patrick; sulky and miserable, he stood looking 
down at his sandalled feet, not even minding the 
cat now looking up at him wide-eyed for more milk. 

Next day, bright and early, his mother brushed 
the dust from Saint Patrick’s everyday purple 
and white toga, looked behind his ears to see had 
he washed back there, made him hold out his 
hands and turn them over to see were they clean 
back as well as front; finally, satisfied with his 
appearance, she nearly smothered him with hugs 
and kisses and packed him off to the nearby vil¬ 
lage of Banavem Taberniae to school. 

Nestling in the foothills near and all around the 
adjacent town of Abergavenny, Banavem Taber¬ 
niae was not heretofore unknown to Saint Patrick. 



The Threat of Invasion 


23 


He had been born there. Potitus, his grandfather 
lived there. Besides, his father was a most impor¬ 
tant figure in the daily life of the village, being 
both a deacon and a decurion, that is to say, he 
was engaged in Holy Orders as was permissible for 
married men at the time and he performed certain 
civic duties such as collecting taxes and command¬ 
ing a band of ten soldiers whose duty it was to 
keep law and order. 

Being so familiar with the village then, finding 
the school was not as hard a task as Saint Patrick 
would have liked it to be. Around an open court¬ 
yard, at the top of the village, it lay; a series of 
low-lying, grey stone buildings. Crossing the court¬ 
yard, Saint Patrick who had dawdled on the way, 
heard the discordant hum which betrays students 
reciting a lesson aloud. 

Almost without knowing he did it, he pulled a 
face, a sour face like the one his mother called his 
“herb-brew” face because he used to make it when 
he was sick and she had to brew herbs to make him 
well. 

Luckily, he had his face under control by the 
time he entered the main classroom where a severe¬ 
eyed teacher bade him be seated with as little noise 
as possible on one of the wooden benches encircling 
the bare walls. 

Once seated, he began to look about to see if 
perhaps one of the many pairs of eyes turned on 
him held besides curiosity, a spark of friendship. 



24 My Saint Patrick 

But besides curiosity all he imagined he saw was 
scorn. 

This pained him more than he could ever say and 
although he tried his level best not to think of it, 
it filled his mind; so much so that before he could 
stop them, tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“What’s this? What’s this? Who is it snivel¬ 
ling?” demanded the teacher, raising bushy eye¬ 
brows on a high, scholarly forehead. 

“Please, sir, it’s the new boy; I think he’s home¬ 
sick,” spoke up one of the students. 

“Hum. Homesick, is he? Well, we’ll soon cure 
him of that.” 

Rooting about in the pocket of his all envelop¬ 
ing white toga, the teacher advanced on Saint Pat¬ 
rick. 

Like a rabbit hypnotised by a weasel; unable to 
move, Saint Patrick felt. 

“How about a taste of this, young fellow?” said 
the teacher, drawing his hand from his pocket. 

Saint Patrick was so surprised he nearly fell 
over. The teacher was offering him a beautiful 
rosy apple. 

He wanted to say thank you, of course, but 
somehow the words stuck in his throat and he 
blushed instead. 

Often’s the time the teacher must have had 
that happen. He seemed to understand very well 
how Saint Patrick felt, for he turned away and 
went back to his desk and on with the lesson. 



The Threat of Invasion 


25 


Pretty soon, one of the boys put his arm about 
Saint Patrick as if to say, I am your friend, and 
Saint Patrick began to smile, thinking that school 
after all was not nearly as bad as he thought 
’twould be. 

When in the afternoon, he went home, he was 
already looking forward to the morrow. 

Now, while Saint Patrick passed his days at 
home and at school, out in the world events of 
great historical importance were taking place, 
events which later were to have a great, but for 
a time, terrible effect on his life. 

Chief among these events was the death of 
Maximus, self-styled Emperor of Britain. Maxi¬ 
mus, a former general in the army of Theodotius, 
Emperor-in-Chief of the Roman Empire of which 
Britain was part, all too speedily, in the days of 
his reign, drained the land of armed forces to fight 
in Gaul against the emperor, Gratian. 

At length, having treacherously murdered Gra¬ 
tian, Maximus decided to march on Rome instead 
of returning to Britain where he was badly needed. 
But the march on Rome turned out to be his last 
march, for Death in the person of Theodotius 
the Younger, caught up with him at Aquileia, a 
fortressed town in northern Italy. 

Meanwhile, in Britain, invaders from Scotland, 
Ireland and the mountain fastnesses of Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s own province of Wales, swooped down on 



26 


My Saint Patrick 


the defenseless Roman colonies, laying them waste 
and taking captive the inhabitants. 

With the death of Maximus, however, things 
took a turn for the better. Theodotius, learning 
of Britain’s distress, placed her welfare in the 
capable hands of General Stilicho, a Slav who had 
risen in the army from the lowly positions of 
Count of the Domestics and Master of the Horse 
to become first general of the forces of the west. 

In great haste, General Stilicho dispatched a 
legion to Britain. When the legion arrived, how¬ 
ever, all it found of the invaders was the ruin they 
left in their wake. Evidently, word of its coming 
had preceded it. 

But with its coming, peace came to Britain. 
Alas, it did not long remain. On short notice the 
legion was recalled and no sooner had it disap¬ 
peared in Roman ships over the rim of the horizon 
than the invaders caught wanderlust and again 
revisited the hapless land. 

Little else could Britain do except petition 
Rome to send aid. 

But in the interim, the emperor-in-chief, Theo¬ 
dotius had died and in his stead ruled Hono- 
rius, his son. Instead of sending aid, Honorius 
turned a deaf ear to Britain. To tell the truth, 
he was not much of a fellow, this Honorius. He 
spent most of his time in ladylike pursuits when 
he should have been on the battlefield. 



The Threat of Invasion 


27 


To make matters worse, General Stilicho who 
could have persuaded Honorius to send Britain aid, 
was away in Greece, attempting to subdue Alaric, 
the German general who had forsworn his alle¬ 
giance to Rome and with great daring was attack¬ 
ing Athens. 

Oh, there is no denying it; under Honorius the 
Roman Empire was fast crumbling and Britain 
was being left a prey for her un-Romanised neigh¬ 
bors to devour. 

But whether Saint Patrick and his family were 
aware of these happenings on the continent is 
something hard to say. News got about slowly 
then; by word of mouth for the most part, and 
news traveling that way is seldom reliable when 
it reaches its destination. 

Besides, having been brought up in the tradition 
of the Roman Empire, they would not have lis¬ 
tened lightly to any word concerning the empire’s 
downfall. To them, the empire was all that was 
good, all that was great and, what was more im¬ 
portant just then, all that was invincible. 

Help, they felt sure, would arrive sooner or 
later. Why should it not? they asked themselves. 
Was not Britain part of the empire? Were not 
the Britons as good citizens as any? 

So with those thoughts, or thoughts similar in 
their minds, Saint Patrick and his family did not 
worry too much. So far, Banavem Taberniae had 
escaped the wrath of the invaders. With the help 



28 My Saint Patrick 

of God it would continue to do so. Meanwhile 
life had to be lived and they would continue to 
live as they had always lived, Calpurnius busying 
himself with his religious and civic duties, Con- 
chessa tending to her household and Saint Patrick 
going daily to school and receiving at home, from 
his father, religious instruction to which he paid 
little if any heed. 

Had they but known, across the sea in island 
Ireland, a mighty king and merciless was marshal¬ 
ling his army to raid the entire western coast of 
Britain, they would, no doubt, have changed their 
way of life and this story would never have been 
written. 

But they did not know. How could they when 
in the light of all that happened afterwards, harsh 
and bitter though it was for a time, it seems it 
was God’s special wish that they should not know? 




CHAPTER THREE 
An Unexpected Fall 


Seldom, if ever, was Niall Noigiallacht, High- 
King of Ireland, called by his name. Instead, his 
subjects referred to him as Niall of the Nine 
Hostages because he commanded tribute from 
that many of their provinces. 

Yet Niall of the Nine Hostages was not a happy 
man. At heart, he was a warrior but by subduing 
all Ireland so that it trembled and grovelled before 
him, he had unwittingly deprived himself of the 
battles so dear to his heart. What in the world 
was the use of being High-King if there were no 
fighting in the land, he asked himself time and 
time again and he six fathoms deep in despair. 

29 





30 


My Saint Patrick 


After many the long and bewilderingly peace¬ 
ful day, however, a way out of his difficulty pre¬ 
sented itself to him. 

Since at home there was none, he would go 
abroad looking for fight. 

No sooner said than done. 

Tossing a saffron-hued cloak about his well set 
shoulders, he stepped down from his throne to go 
marshall his men. 

One week later, the plains of Tara echoed with 
the woeful wailing of women lamenting the de¬ 
parture of their soldiering kin for the battlefield. 
But women always wail woefully when men go 
to war, so it is not to be wondered at, little at¬ 
tention was paid them. 

Led by Niall of the Nine Hostages, the vast 
army moved at a smart pace across the plains 
towards the east where, at the mouth of the river 
Boyne, graceful galleys lay waiting to transport 
them overseas to Britain. 

Wholly innocent of Niall of the Nine Hostages’ 
plans, Saint Patrick lay at rest beneath the warty 
boughs of an otherwise handsome oak tree. Above 
him, in the high, slim branches, a flock of linnets 
trilled tuneful melodies. Small wonder his thoughts 
were “linnet-laden.” Small wonder he wished he 
could sing as they sang. 

But it was easy for them to sing so, he argued; 
they did not have to go to school day in and day 



An Unexpected Fall 


31 


out, neither did they have to do chores on a farm 
nor learn the Psalms by heart from a priestly par¬ 
ent. And not alone could they sing beautifully but 

they could fly too. What a wonderful thing that 
was! 

But what was that? 

“Son! Where are you at son?” 

Great heavens, it was his mother calling him! 

Rising to his feet, he sped towards the house, 
frightening the linnets with the suddenness of his 
going. 

As soon as he entered the house, Saint Patrick 
saw that his mother and father were dressed for 
going out. His mother had on a long, green, 
“womany” dress, falling in loose folds to her feet. 
Her very best dress, it was. She wore too a little 
shoulder shawl to protect her hair from the dust 
of the road. As for his father: he wore a clean, 
white toga, the tunic-like garment worn by all men 
of the Roman Empire and soon to be worn by Saint 
Patrick himself instead of the purple and white 
toga of boyhood which custom decreed he cast off 
on his sixteenth birthday but four weeks ahead. 

“Mother! Father! Where are you off to?” he 
panted, out of breath from having run so fast. 

“To the village to shop,” his mother replied. 

“And we look to you to have an eye to the place 
against our return,” his father interposed. 

“Very well, Father.” 

Saint Patrick tried to keep every trace of dis- 



32 


My Saint Patrick 


appointment from his voice; faithfully, he had 
promised a friend to play ball that afternoon. 

“Good boy! My blessing on you.” 

With his thumb, Calpurnius made the Sign of 
the Cross over his son. 

“Be sure you stay a good boy,” his mother coun¬ 
selled, as bending down she kissed him lightly on 
both cheeks. 

“Don’t you worry about me being a good boy, 
Mother,” Saint Patrick laughed, returning her 
kisses and going with her to the door and waving 
good-bye. 

His parents gone, Saint Patrick bestirred him¬ 
self and strolled out of doors to see how things 
were moving on the farm. In the orchards, he 
found servants tending the apple trees. One of 

them, he cautioned against disturbing the roots; 

then, he walked on, heading for the north fields 
to count the cattle. The walk there was a pleas¬ 
ant one, spoiled only by finding two bullocks miss¬ 
ing from the herd. 

To find the strays was the hard task indeed 
but at last he came upon them in a neighbor’s 
pasture and he was glad he had found them and 
not the neighbor, for that particular neighbor was 
—well, he was cranky, poor man; the least little 
thing upset him. 

Having herded the bullocks back to the herd, 
Saint Patrick decided on a trip to the uplands to 
chat with the shepherd about the sheep and learn 



An Unexpected Fall 


33 


were they ready for clipping. A nice old climb, 
he was wishing on himself but he was used to it 
and so made it in his own time, whistling and 
singing to keep himself company along the way. 
Reaching the summit, he faced about, breathed 
deeply of the clear, crisp upland air, bathing his 
lungs while allowing his eyes to sweep clear across 
the lowlands to the line of the horizon. 

Strange 1 the vast vista made him feel small, 
ant-size, of no account. 

Certainly, this was an unusual and not at all 
welcome experience. But he did not bother to 
ask himself the reason for it—he was in no mood 
for thought—instead, he turned impatiently on 
his heel, shrugging his shoulders as if to cast off 
a weighty, unpleasantly wet cloak, and in a mo¬ 
ment was conversing with the shepherd outside 
his lean-to. 

Clipping day was not far off, the shepherd said. 
Of course, the sheep would have to be washed first. 
Doubtless, Saint Patrick would like to come to the 
river to give him a hand with the dipping. 

But Saint Patrick did not hear the shepherd’s 
question. A strangely ominous sound in the dis¬ 
tance claimed his attention. For a moment, he 
listened, tense and uncertain. 

“Do you hear what I hear?” he exclaimed, 
clutching the shepherd’s arm. 

Startled, the shepherd turned his ear on the 
breeze. 




34 My Saint Patrick 

“By the stars, but I do!” he cried. 

That was all Saint Patrick needed to know. 
Without further ado, he fled for home. 

Lord, what a run! 

“While on the uplands, I heard soldiers march¬ 
ing,” he cried, hurrying past the orchards and on 
across the farmyard. 

Immediately, servants and farmhands alike 
dropped what they were doing and ran for cover. 
There was no telling just who those marching sol¬ 
diers might be; no telling at all. They might be 
Roman soldiers sent at last by Honorius or in¬ 
vaders come to plunder and to kill. 

Having given the alarm, Saint Patrick looked 
about for a hiding place for himself but, as he did, 
he remembered his mother and father and he knew 
that he must get to the village in time to give them 
warning. 

Without further thought for his own safety, he 
veered away from the haystack he had decided 
to hide in and, swiftly, sure-footedly, made his 
way across country, using the short cut he often 
used of a morning and he late for school. 

Could he reach the village before the soldiers? 
The all important question was uppermost in his 
mind. 

Of course, if they were Roman soldiers he was 
worrying needlessly. But were they? Och, if only 
he could make better time! Already, his long run 
down from the uplands was beginning to tell against 



An Unexpected Fall 


35 


him. Sweat rained down his reddened cheeks. His 
breath came in short dry gasps, tearing him inside. 
And now, what was worse, a stitch was piercing 
his left side, cutting into him like a cold, sharp 
knife. 

But in spite of the pain and tiredness and dis¬ 
tress, Saint Patrick kept bravely on. 

Presently, the stitch went away and he got his 
second wind. 

Running more smoothly then, he found himself 
muttering, “Oh, how I wish I could see what sol¬ 
diers they are! ” ■ 

Almost magically, his wish was granted him. 

Clearing a ditch with all the grace and speed of 
a hunted hare, he came in sight of the road. Chat¬ 
tering amongst themselves in a strange but musi¬ 
cal tongue, the soldiers—a long snake-like column 
of them—stretched out before his eyes, evidently 
husbanding their strength with a short rest. At a 
glance he knew them for invaders. 

Like a plummet, he dropped to the ground. Had 
he been seen? Agonised with fear, he lay still, 
scarce daring to breathe. 

Minutes passed; not a move was made in his 
direction. 

Though his situation was yet precarious, he 
sighed with relief. So far, he was safe. But to tor¬ 
ment him sorely came the thought that now more 
than ever, it was important for him to get to the vil¬ 
lage; not alone for his mother and father’s sake but 




36 My Saint Patrick 

also for the sake of every man, woman and child 
living there. 

Cautiously creeping to the shelter of the ditch 
he had just cleared, he edged his way forward; a 
sick feeling in the pit of his stomach from fear. 

After what seemed an eternity, he was able to 
straighten up. In a flash, he took his bearings, 
finding himself but a short distance from the vil¬ 
lage. Glancing back over his shoulder to make sure 
the coast was clear, he started off across the one 
field between himself and the road. 

Up onto the embankment, he scrambled and 
jumped. As he did, a blackberry vine, prompted 
by the wind, stretched out a thorny arm, tripping 
him up. Instead of landing safely on his feet, he 
fell head foremost. Crumpled up, very pale and 
very still, he lay where he fell. 



CHAPTER FOUR 


Enslaved 


Having landed in Britain and passed a bloody 
rake over that part of the Welsh coast washed by 
Cardigan Bay, Niall of the Nine Hostages swung 
around Pemprokeshire’s three heads into the Bris¬ 
tol Channel. Hugging the land at his left hand, 
he pursued his course, passing Carmarthenshire 
and Glamorganshire with but occasional stops for 
provisions which, needless to relate, he acquired 
without any money changing hands. 

Coming then to Monmouthshire where the chan¬ 
nel narrows into the Severn estuary, he made up his 
mind to follow inland the course of the curving 
river Usk. Caerleon, a town hardby the mouth of 
this river, fell before him like chaff from wheat at 
a threshing. 

Pleased with his conquest and a wealth of spoil, 
he continued on the river as far as Abergavenny. 
Abergavenny fell even as Caerleon had fallen. Yet 
Niall was not satisfied; he must needs anchor his 
boats at Abergavenny and go inland afoot to rav¬ 
age the villages and farmsteads in the vicinity. 

37 



38 


My Saint Patrick 


“. . . and I tell you, they don’t sing near as well 
as the birds back in Ireland.” This from Niall of 
the birds in the hedges near Banavem Taberniae. 

Before the chieftain to whom he spoke had time 
to answer, a scout came to report the body of a 
boy on the road ahead. 

“Is it dead or alive, he is?” 

Niall’s voice was rough, impatient. He very 
much disliked interruptions when he was holding 
forth. 

“0 king, I could not say for sure,” replied the 
scout, respectfully touching his forelock. 

“Then why did you not throw him in the ditch 
and be done with him?” 

Niall was now openly angry. Was the man gone 
clear out of his head, annoying him, Niall of the 
Nine Hostages, High-King of Ireland and the brav¬ 
est man in it, because of a carcass on the road? 

“O king, he is the well built lad, the strong lad. 
If ’tis not dead but alive he is, he’ll make you the 
fine enough slave, so he will. Maybe if Brian 
Gollacht took a look at him . . . ?” 

Hesitantly the scout made the suggestion. The 
army doctor was a busy man. Niall might not 
like disturbing him. 

“Get Brian, but be quick about it.” 

Faith, disturbing Brian Gollacht never bothered 
Niall if there was profit in it. 

Off sped the scout like a sinner with the devil 
at his heels. 



Enslaved 


39 


“Come up ahead, Brian Gollacht. There’s a lad 
on the road does be needing you, I’m thinking,” 
he cried, coming upon the doctor and he march¬ 
ing with the wounded, tending their wants. 

Without question, Brian Gollacht followed the 
scout. 

“The look of death is on him,” he said as bend¬ 
ing down, he drew back Saint Patrick’s toga and 
pressed an ear to his heart. 

Listening for the life beat, Brian Gollacht held 
his breath and into his half closed eyes came a 
keen, expectant look. 

At last he lifted his head, “He lives,” he pro¬ 
nounced simply. 

“Hoho! He lives, does he?” roared Niall of the 
Nine Hostages, coming up unnoticed. “And what 
would you say was the matter with him, Brian 
Gollacht?” 

“A split skull, O king; a split skull a little water 
won’t harm but cure.” 

As he spoke, Brian Gollacht untied his waterskin 
from his belt and poured its cool contents over the 
wound on Saint Patrick’s head. 

A while of waiting; then Saint Patrick stirred, 
his eyelids quivered, fluttered and opened on bewil¬ 
dered eyes. As one waking from a heavy sleep, 
he slowly sat up, looking about in a dazed way, 
quite uncertain of his whereabouts, wholly forget¬ 
ful of all that had gone before. 

“Come on! Come on! Up with you now! We’ve 



40 My Saint Patrick 

wasted time enough on you already/’ Niall bawled 
impatiently. 

Not knowing the Gaelic tongue, Saint Patrick 
did not understand his command. Yet he sensed 
from the harshness in back of it and the hard 
look in Niall’s eye that he was being asked to get 
up. Rising weakly, the horror of his situation 
dawned on him; in his eyes bewilderment gave 
way to misery and in his throat a sob leaped. 

But Niall of the Nine Hostages was merciless. 

“Take him back and shackle him along with the 
other captives,” he ordered. 

And with that, he rejoined his chieftains, say¬ 
ing to the one with whom he had been talking 
before the interruption, “I still say the birds back 
in Ireland are the best singers and I’m willing to 
bet on it.” 

Quietly, peacefully Banavem Taberniae basked 
in the late afternoon sun, its streets empty of 
strollers, its shops empty of customers; for it was 
the hour when the odor of the evening meal in 
preparation filled the air. Housewives by their 
noses knew what the neighbors were cooking and 
rated them socially accordingly; too, it was the 
hour when the men met at the public baths to lave 
and talk, and the hour when the dogs lay in the 
shade, their tongues hanging dry, courting the cool 
breeze, their tails wrapped in around them. 

Strangely enough, it was the dogs that shattered 



Enslaved 


41 


the stillness and peace of the hour. Leaping to 
their feet with startling suddenness, they pointed 
their noses high on the air, sniffed; then broke into 
furious barking. 

Almost at once, a dozen or more doors were 
thrown open and distracted voices bade the dogs 
be still. But the dogs that either through fear or 
affection usually obeyed such commands, refused 
to be quiet. 

Presently, the men at the baths took serious 
note of them. 

“The dogs seldom bark in the late afternoon,” 
said one. 

“True,” agreed his neighbor. 

“Something must be up,” put in another. 

“There is a warning to their bark,” a fourth one 
said. 

“I will go to the wall and see if strangers ap¬ 
proach,” a clothed one volunteered. 

A dark, heavy air of impending calamity had 
filled the baths and it was with feelings of open 
anxiety that the men awaited the return of their 
fellow. 

He came quickly but his voice preceded him. 
While yet on the street, they heard him cry, 
“Invaders are on us! Invaders: they’re on top 
of us! Come, come swiftly: we must close the 
gates!” 

Gathering their togas about them in any and 
every old way, the men poured forth. Some ran 



42 


My Saint Patrick 


to help with the gates, others to their homes for 
weapons, still others in search of Saint Patrick’s 
father, their martial leader who had been seen 
shopping earlier in the afternoon with his wife. 

Oh, not without a fight was Banavem Taberniae 
to be taken! 

Rounding the last turn in the road and coming 
in sight of Banavem Taberniae, Niall of the Nine 
Hostages paused and hung back to plan a method 
of attack. 

The advance scouts had reported that the gates 
were closed tight but added that they had sunk 
the boats anchored on the Gavenny riverlet oppo¬ 
site the south gate, thus cutting off the villagers’ 
only means of escape. 

A plan forming rapidly in his mind, Niall of 
the Nine Hostages held counsel with his chief¬ 
tains. The chieftains then passed word of the 
manner of attack among the soldiers. The sol¬ 
diers tightened the belts of their tunics, gripped 
their spears, held their shields in place and stood 
waiting the word for action. 

All of a sudden, a cry rang out, “Forward on the 
double!” 

The stampede was on. 

With incredible speed, they charged. A shower 
of spears greeted their approach, many finding a 
mark so that here and there one of them, pierced 
through, fell dead to the ground. Undaunted, Niall 



Enslaved 


43 


called for a greater effort, at the same time vowing 
vengeance horrible on the villagers. 

According to his plan, human ladders were 
formed at weak points along the walls and Niall 
himself was first to climb the broad shoulders of 
his soldiers to the wall-top. 

Fearless and fast, his chieftains followed after 
him and as spears were handed them from below, 
they rained them down on the outnumbered mass 
of citizenry inside. 

Under such withering fire, the villagers started 
to retreat toward the south gate. As they did, the 
south gate burst open and in poured the invaders. 

Caught now between two fires, the villagers 
showed the color of their courage by continuing 
to battle valiantly, to kill and be killed in the 
mad hope that even yet they might defeat the 
enemy. 

Meanwhile, Saint Patrick and his fellow cap¬ 
tives lay tied like trussed chickens on the ground 
some distance from the combat. And it was this 
way, Saint Patrick had his eyes closed and his 
fists clenched and he reproaching himself bitterly, 
blaming everything on himself, and worrying too 
for his mother and father. Had he not been so 
clumsy and fallen, his mother and father and the 
villagers could all have made their escape. Why, 
oh, why, did he have to fall and he so near the end 
of his run? It didn’t seem fair. But surely, he 
asked himself, surely God couldn’t let two such 



44 


My Saint Patrick 


good, two such holy people as his mother and 
father be killed. God was good. God was kind; 
He was a merciful God. 

Almost as a revelation from on high, there came 
to Saint Patrick at that moment, a full knowledge 
of the power and the might of God. And he wanted 
to pray. But he was ashamed, ashamed because 
all his life he had neglected God. Even the very 
prayers he wished to say, he had learned not for 
God, but to please his father. 

The other boys he knew were like that too. They 
didn’t care a fig for God; any of them. Ah, but 
they were wrong even as he was wrong. What would 
he not give to right that wrong! 

But now in the village, Niall of the Nine Hos¬ 
tages was leading his men to certain victory. 

Already flames danced wickedly in despoiled 
buildings. Already gutters were clogged with the 
dead and dying. Already those left alive—women 
and children mostly—were begging for death 
rather than slavery and already Niall of the Nine 
Hostages was laughing in their bloodstained, grief- 
stricken faces, refusing them. 




CHAPTER FIVE 
Sold into Slavery 


Seven maybe eight times louder than the wails at 
his going, were the joyous cries with which the 
women of Tara welcomed Niall of the Nine Hos¬ 
tages home. As Niall, at the head of his army 
marched into the palace enclosure, the women 
sang, they danced and cheered, they wildly em¬ 
braced their loved ones, they mocked the captives, 
they laughed loud and long and finally they wept. 
But women always weep their joy as always they 
weep their grief so it is not to be wondered at, 
little attention was paid them. 

Scorning all such nonsense, Niall of the Nine 
Hostages went off on his own to the kennels to 
greet his hunting dogs. Wild with joy, his favorite 

45 














46 


My Saint Patrick 


wolfhounds, Cuchulain, Tuachall and Iubar sprang 
on him, nearly toppling him off his feet in their 
anxiety to lick his bearded face. 

Pleased by this reception, but pretending not 
to be at all, Niall cried, “Down, down, my proud 
beauties!” and at his bidding the dogs bellied the 
dust. 

After that, Niall went on into the palace to pay 
his respects to his wife. But the Queen of all Ire¬ 
land did not detain him long. She could see how 
tired he was, how exhausted, so she led him to his 
couch. 

Before you could say, Finn macCool, Niall was 
snoring his head off. Niall was not the only one 
snoring; his soldiers snored too. Tired out after 
the long and arduous campaign, all they wanted, 
all they asked was to be left alone in peace to 
sleep their fill. 

Aye, and yet others besides Niall and his loyal 
soldiers snored. It was the way the captives snored 
as well. For several days, the captives had had 
little or no sleep. At Abergavenny they were loaded 
like cattle into already overcrowded boats where 
there was no room for them to lie down, no room 
to move about, no room for anything save standing 
and suffering. Down the river Usk, through Bris¬ 
tol Channel, ’round Pembroke’s heads and up north 
through the Irish Sea, they stood and suffered; 
Saint Patrick among them and he near dead of 
sorrow not alone for himself but also for his mother 



Sold into Slavery 


47 


and father whose uncertain fate preyed terribly on 
his mind. Nor had the captives lot been lightened 
any on reaching Ireland; no indeed, for two weary 
days they were forced to carry on their aching 
backs, across the plains of Meath, the spoil robbed 
from them by their royal captor. But now in their 
deep sleeping, the captives were dreaming of their 
homes forever lost to them, God help them! 

For three days Tara rested; only the women 
folk moving about, preparing food for the short 
waking periods, then they too would doze off. The 
morning of the fourth day, however, Niall of the 
Nine Hostages opened his royal, Irish eyes and 
kept them open wide. Then, forsaking his couch, 
he gave orders for the celebration of his safe re¬ 
turn. Games were to be held, hunts arranged, 
poems written in his honor by the poets, special 
music composed by the bards, dances run and all 
to be topped off with a great banquet. 

As Niall ordained so everything took place and 
at last the day set for the banquet arrived. Filled 
to overflowing that day was Tara’s famed banquet¬ 
ing hall, the “Hall of Mead” which took its name 
from the mead drink made from boiled honey¬ 
combs so liberally, oftentimes too liberally, served 
at banquets in those days. 

At the head of the main table sat Niall himself 
and he garbed fit to take his place alongside any 
king in the whole wide world. About his head, he 
wore a wide band of purest gold. From his shoul- 



48 


My Saint Patrick 


ders, a purple cloak fastened at the neck with an 
emerald-studded broach, hung in graceful folds. 
Under his cloak a saffron tunic girded at the waist 
with a silver chain was on him. Rings of filligreed 
precious metals set with gems the size of pigeons’ 
eggs adorned his fingers, while swathed in finest 
silk and crossed about with the ribbons of his 
deerskin sandals, were his muscled legs. Och, sure 
he was elegance itself and he sitting laughing and 
joking with those near at hand when he was not 
eating and drinking which was seldom, for he had 
the great appetite and the unquenchable thirst, 
had the same Niall! 

As for his guests; the provincial kings, princes 
and chieftains of the land: what they tucked away 
would have fed a regiment of gluttons for weeks. 

Roast bonham fresh from the spit, they ate. 
Roast pheasant, wild duck and kid, they ate. Roast 
ham, beef ruddy rare, veal and juicy venison, they 
ate. Cheeses, breads, soups, fish, greens, fruit and 
desserts of every known kind, they ate. And mead, 
they quaffed from golden goblets and they not 
minding a bit the poor cup-bearers whose legs 
folded under them in wobbly fashion with fatigue. 

When after ten hours steady feasting nought 
was left but bones for the dogs, and the paunches 
of Niall and his guests were extended to the ut¬ 
most, Niall called for music. Into the hall, hur¬ 
ried a harpist, the one of whom ’twas whispered, 



Sold into Slavery 


49 


he had lived half his life with the fairies in the 
mountains of Slieve-na-mhan. 

Certainly, it must have been from the fairies, 
the harpist learned his art. To see his fingers 
move through the harp strings, you would think, 
it was weaving cobwebs for crippled spiders, he 
was. And the music he made! Never since ’twas 
built had such sweet sounds invaded the hall. 

But at last, the harpist’s fingers stiffened and 
tired. He could play no more. Bowing first to 
Niall of the Nine Hostages, then to the guests 
whose hands were red like turkeycocks’ heads from 
applauding him, he quietly withdrew. 

Soon, at Niall’s command, his place was taken 
by a seanacie whose business it was to tell the story 
of Niall’s exploits in Britain for the enjoyment of 
the guests. Well did the seanacie do his job, cov¬ 
ering every step taken by Niall just as if he had 
been there himself which he wasn’t, but had the 
information second hand from one of the soldiers. 

At length in his telling, the seanacie came to 
the taking of Banavem Taberniae. Not a man in 
the room but was wishing he had been there. How¬ 
ever, as the seanacie went on to tell of the thou¬ 
sands of captives brought home by Niall; why 
then, the guests would listen no longer. Inter¬ 
rupting the seanacie in his stride, their eyes gleam¬ 
ing with envy-light, they begged Niall to sell the 
captives right there and then, that they, going 



50 


My Saint Patrick 


home on the morrow, might take some along to 
work their land and mind the flocks. 

So quickly did Niall give into them, you would 
think he had invited his guests for that very pur¬ 
pose, which maybe, he did; there’s no knowing. 
As soon as the tables were cleared and the rush 
lights lit for the night and the dogs let loose to 
tear the throat of any rambling stranger, the 
strange sale got under way. Fierce and terrific 
was the competition and loud were the complaints 
of the poor bidders when the rich bought as many 
as fifty captives, one on top of another. 

Less than an hour but not more than half an 
hour had the sale been under way when Saint Pat¬ 
rick was led in. At the sight of him a great stir 
swept the hall; for Saint Patrick was beautiful to 
look at and he was strong as he was beautiful. 

“Now, here for you is the likely lad!” Niall ex¬ 
claimed in admiration, laying a hand to Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s head and spinning him roughly ’round to 
show off the muscles of his back. 

Saint Patrick winced. 

“A likely lad, indeed!” echoed the chieftains 
and they eyeing one another distrustfully, wonder¬ 
ing who would bid the most. 

“Silence now!” Niall roared. 

You could have heard the breast feather of a 
dove floating down from the sky. The auctioneer 
stepped up on the table he was using by way of 
a block. 



Sold into Slavery 


51 


“What am I offered for this bright lad? Fair 
to the eye, he is. Strong like a horse, he is. Clear 
eyed to count flocks, he is. Fast legged to chase 
strays, he is. What am I offered? What am I of¬ 
fered?” 

“A cannister of silver, the worth of four fattened 
swine!” 

Miliucc maccu-Buain, chieftain of Dalaradia was 
the bidder. 

An uneasy silence followed his bid. If Miliucc 
maccu-Buain was a chieftain, so also, he was a 
druid. That meant, he was skilled in black magic. 
’Twould go hard for anyone bidding against him. 
Even Niall of the Nine Hostages held his peace, 
although he reckoned Saint Patrick worth two such 
cannisters of silver. 

“What am I offered above a cannister of silver 
the worth of four fattened swine?” 

The auctioneer’s voice was hardly above a whis¬ 
per. On him too was great fear and respect for 
Miliucc maccu-Buain. 

None spoke up. 

“He’s yours, holy chieftain.” 

Without more ado, Saint Patrick was knocked 
down to the druid. 

Another captive quickly took his place. The 
sale went on as before. Early next morning, ’twas 
before ’twas over. 



CHAPTER SIX 

Saint Patrick Begins a New Life 


In the lonely twilight of a late Autumn afternoon, 
on his way home from Tara, Miliucc maccu-Buain 
drew rein to his chariot to gaze fondly on the hills 
of Dalaradia, rising dimly before him in the dis¬ 
tance. Yonder to the north, the ancient hill of 
Skerry lifted its proud head in greeting, as well it 
might; for, on its pleasant slopes, he had built his 
dun. 

South of Skerry, he could barely make out the 
cool, clear waters of the river Braid from which 
many the fine fish had come to his table in the 
past and would in the future. He could see faintly 
the river valley with its wealth of shady glens and 
undulating, fertile lands; the loveliest vale in all 
Ireland. But nearer at hand and clearer to the 
eye stood Mount Slemish on whose fruitful slopes 
his herds ate their fill, grew fat and prospered him. 
Every time he looked on Slemish from a distance, 
Miliucc maccu-Buain could not help thinking of 
stirabout; for, for all the world, it looked like a 
stirabout bowl set upside down by mistake. 

52 



Saint Patrick Begins a New Life S3 


On Slemish, it was, he would put the new slave 
to work, he told himself. As the auctioneer said, 
he looked like a strong bit of a lad. But he would 
have to be strong to weather a winter on Slemish. 
Faith and indeed, he would have to be strong! 
With that Spartan thought for Saint Patrick in 
mind, Miliucc maccu-Buain whipped up the horses 
and continued on his way at the head of his retinue, 
driving fast, for he wished to reach home before 
nightfall. 

Speaking not a word of Gaelic as yet, Saint Pat¬ 
rick was able to judge nevertheless that the end of 
the road was close at hand. During the days of 
the journey, he had often wondered what the end 
of that road held in store for him. Would it be 
some mountain stronghold from which he could 
not hope to escape? That was the all important 
question: Time alone could give the answer. 

Meanwhile, what of his mother and father? 
Were they in the village at the time of the raid? 
Saint Patrick did not know. He did not think 
that they were. He thought of them as alive but 
lonely and broken-hearted over his loss as he was 
lonely and broken-hearted at being lost to them. 
Och, in all truth, there were times during the jour¬ 
ney when Saint Patrick bit hard into his knuckles, 
tracking them with his teeth in an effort to stifle 
with a new pain the pain in his heart for his par¬ 
ents. 

Once in a while, when it seemed he could not 



54 


My Saint Patrick 


suffer another minute and live, when it seemed his 
heart must surely burst or break in two, he found 
himself reciting one of the Psalms his father had 
so patiently taught him. But he said it with sincer¬ 
ity; with so much sincerity, so much repentance for 
his past behavior, that it penetrated past the 
saints, past the angels, past the archangels and 
into God’s own ear, so that his pain was eased 
and his load less heavy to bear. 

To be sure, Saint Patrick wondered at this and, 
wondering, he asked himself why he had never 
prayed that way before. If he had, he reasoned, 
all that had happened might not have happened 
at all. Perhaps his plight was a punishment for 
not learning sooner; aye and a punishment for his 
sins which were not few, young though he was. 

Galloping up a steep incline and rounding on 
one wheel a sharp bend in the road, Miliucc maccu- 
Buain came to the earthern rampart encircling his 
dun. Topped by a thorny hedge, the rampart 
presented an obstacle to one bent on escape from 
within; an obstacle which Saint Patrick was not 
slow to notice. 

At a gate set in the rampart, eagerly awaiting 
their father’s arrival, stood Miliucc maccu-Buain’s 
four children; Gussacht, his son, Bronach and the 
two Emers, his daughters. Almost dragging their 
father from his chariot, the children hugged him 
and kissed him for all they were worth, and Miliucc 



Saint Patrick Begins a New Life 55 


maccu-Buain gave back their hugs and kisses just 
as any other father would. 

“Perhaps he is not such a hard man after all,” 
Saint Patrick murmured to himself and he watch¬ 
ing the scene. 

The words were but out of his mouth when 
something happened to gladden his heart a bit. 
Gussacht, filled with curiosity on hearing tell of 
the new slave, came hurrying towards him. Saint 
Patrick watched him come, puzzled and distrust¬ 
ful. 

But when Gussacht came close what he did was: 
he looked deep into Saint Patrick’s eyes in the 
friendly way little boys have of looking at people. 
What he saw must have pleased him, for he smiled, 
blushed at his own daring and stammered a kindly 
hello which Saint Patrick did not understand be¬ 
cause it was a Gaelic hello. But Saint Patrick did 
understand the smile and returned it in kind; 
the first smile he smiled out of Banavem Taberniae. 

With that Gussacht ran off to tell his sisters 
what Saint Patrick looked like, they being too shy 
to come forward but at heart every bit as curious 
as their brother. 

While the chariots and horses were being stabled, 
Saint Patrick found time to look more closely at 
his surroundings. Back of the yard, from where 
he stood he could see the dwelling house, a square 
building of wattle wood with a roof to it shaped 



56 


My Saint Patrick 


like a cup and thatched with reeds. In front of 
the house was a patch of grass speckled with fallen 
leaves and to one side of it an enclosure or hag- 
gart. There Saint Patrick could see a pile of logs 
for the fire almost as big as the house itself, and 
a rick of straw and a haystack from which two 
goats were nibbling and they harnessed for car¬ 
rying water. He could see too, an upturned cart 
and a well and a sty in one corner, and falling 
away from the haggart, reaching heavenwards, he 
could see Skerry Hill, a low cloud touching it. 

For a moment, Skerry brought back to Saint 
Patrick the hills of Banavem Taberniae, not that 
there was any resemblance. The hills of Banavem 
Taberniae were more like precipices, harsh and 
forbidding. Skerry on the other hand was a warm 
hill, a snug hill. 

However, had he been given his choice at that 
moment, Saint Patrick would have choosen the 
hills of his home. 

But instead of getting his choice, Miliucc maccu- 
Buain beckoned impatiently to him from the 
house. Trembling in every limb, Saint Patrick 
went forward, wondering what new misery Fate 
had in store for him. He need not have wor¬ 
ried. Miliucc maccu-Buain wished only to show 
him his bed for the night. 

Two days after his arrival, Miliucc maccu-Buain 
sent Saint Patrick across the river to Slemish in 



Saint Patrick Begins a New Life 57 


company with an overseer to teach him how to 
herd swine. But the overseer could only explain 
by signs. Lord, how Saint Patrick wished he had 
the Gaelic on him! 

There stood the overseer and he pointing to the 
forest close by while at the same time he looked 
at the swine, making ferocious faces at them, open¬ 
ing and closing his mouth; then, licking his lips. 

To save himself a clout on the ear, Saint Patrick 
pretended he understood. 

“But what in the world did the man mean?” 
he asked himself when he was left alone. 

No, he couldn’t fathom it. 

Late that night, however, after he had cooked 
himself some stirabout in his little hut and penned 
the swine in an enclosure of thorny furze bush, 
a mournful howl, something like the howl of a dog 
baying the moon but more ominous, rent the air. 

Only one animal howled like that—the wolf! 
Now, he knew what the overseer meant by lick¬ 
ing his lips. Still knowing was poor consolation. 
What was he to do? Panic stricken, he felt like 
running down the mountainside and leaving the 
swine to their fate. 

But suddenly, he remembered something. A vi¬ 
sion of the uplands at home and the shepherd 
lighting a fire at night to frighten wolves away, rose 
up in his mind. Going timidly outside his hut, he 
gathered a bundle of cipeens. In a few minutes he 
had a fire blazing. 



58 


My Saint Patrick 


Autumn passed into winter easily and evenly. 
At first, Saint Patrick scarcely noticed the change. 
To be sure the wind blowing in from the sea felt 
colder, more biting, and the trees, except the 
evergreens, were bare, revealing in their skinny 
branches birds’ nests of the Summer gone; also, 
the swine huddled closer at night and their snores 
came sharper to his ear on the cold, still air. 

For the time being, Saint Patrick had put aside 
all thought of escape. Traipsing strange country¬ 
side, looking for a boat that would take him to 
Britain was no task for the months ahead. Any¬ 
way, he was not so lonely now. 

Oftentimes, it was the way Gussacht and his sis¬ 
ters would come to Slemish bringing him his ration 
of food, and afterwards they would try to teach 
him Gaelic. 

Gussacht really was the best teacher. He would 
point things out and put names on them. For in¬ 
stance, the cows below in the valley; Gussacht 
would stare hard at them and say, “Na ba,” and 
ever afterwards Saint Patrick would know na ba 
meant, the cows. 

When the weather became too harsh for Gus¬ 
sacht and his sisters to come to Slemish, however, 
it often happened that the overseer would tell 
Saint Patrick to bring the swine into the haggard 
inside the rampart for the night. The walk over 
to Skerry was a long one and getting the swine 
over the river was hard but it was better than 



Saint Patrick Begins a New Life 59 


having them eaten by the wolves that kept coming 
closer and closer every night, braving the fire itself 
so hungry they were in the cold. Besides, on those 
nights Saint Patrick would be allowed to eat in the 
kitchen and it was there that he added greatly 
to his knowledge of Gaelic. 

After supper, the servants taking pity on him, 
would tell him, “Pull up a stool by the fire, ?:> and 
there one of them each night told a story to help 
pass the hours pleasantly till bed-time. 

Soon Saint Patrick found himself understanding 
the stories and they delighted him. Stories about 
the ancient Irish heroes, they were and the ancient 
Irish heroes as everybody knows were the great 
heroes entirely; the like of them has not been on 
earth since they left it for Tir-na-n-og , the Land 
of the Young. Cuchulain, Ossian and Finn mac- 
Cool of the magic thumb were Saint Patrick’s favor¬ 
ites. All night long he could listen to stories about 
them but bed-time always came along to rob him 
of that pleasure. Still, those nights, short though 
they were, were the happy nights for a lonesome 
lad. 

But fast following came harsh days and hard. 
Saint Patrick had to work to pay for his pleasure. 
To make matters worse, it was a fierce, bitter 
winter on Slemish that year; it was a bitter winter 
all over Ireland for that matter. 




CHAPTER SEVEN 
The New Friend 


At last, on a certain gladsome day after long weary 
months, spring came to Ireland. 

Suddenly, signs of the season were everywhere 
at hand. Primroses, bluebells, violets and snow¬ 
drops bloomed delicate and fragrant over rich 
cushions of rotted leaves. Ferns uncurled into del¬ 
icate spires and waved bewilderedly in the soft, 
gentle wind. Spongy mosses wet with dew crept 
silently over the rich brown earth. Bees hummed 
in flight from flower to flower, their furred bodies 
pollen speckled. Birds on the wing sought out 
quiet nesting places. Corncrakes chattered from 
morn till night in the tall grass. High up in the 
sky, skylarks, treading the air, motionless, carolled 

60 






The New Friend 


61 


their melodies. Brightly, kindly shone the sun, 
greening the heather of the mountainsides, leafing 
the trees, ridding water of its chill and drawing 
all things upward by the mighty magic of its warm 
caress. 

Never in all his life had Saint Patrick felt such 
great joy at the coming of a season. The winter 
had all but killed him. Bitter cold rains, angry 
winds, snow and sleet all had lashed him furiously 
month in and month out as if they hated him, as 
if they wanted to kill him. 

But the pleasant change in the weather was not 
the sole reason Saint Patrick welcomed the spring. 
Henceforth he would be able to spend all his nights 
on the mountainside. This, to be sure, was a 
change from his former attitude. The happy nights 
spent in his master’s kitchen used to be his great 
delight. Now, however, he had a new friend to 
whom he wished to devote his spare time; every 
minute of it. 

It was the strange thing, all his life he had 
known this friend but, through his own careless¬ 
ness and neglect, a bond of friendship was never 
between them. As a matter of fact, they never 
would have become friends had he not remem¬ 
bered and given much thought to the time when 
on the road out of Tara he prayed and prayer 
eased his burden. 

With that in mind, he had begun to pray every 
night, a little shyly at first but by-and-by with 




62 


My Saint Patrick 


more confidence till at length he felt himself in 
the presence of his friend. Earnestly, he begged 
his friend’s forgiveness for having neglected him 
so long and—merciful One!—his friend forgave 
him. Since then, he had prayed more and more, 
coming to know his friend better, to love him more 
and more. Yet the more he loved his friend, the 
more unworthy of his friendship he felt. But he 
made up his mind to make himself worthy. 

He decided, now that spring was in it, to fast 
as well as pray to that end. Therefore, when 
Gussacht and his sisters came bringing him his ra¬ 
tion of food in those days, he would take only half 
of it, returning the other half. 

Naturally, Gussacht and his sisters wondered at 
this. Said Bronacht, “Is it sick, you are that you 
eat so sparingly?” 

Saint Patrick smiled. 

“No, Bronacht. I am not sick but strong and 
healthy as ever I was,” he said. 

This did not satisfy Gussacht at all. 

“Tell us then,” he demanded, “why you eat no 
more than a bluebottle nowadays, you who used 
to grumble at never getting enough when first you 
came among us?” 

“Some other time. Some other time, I’ll be tell¬ 
ing you.” 

Saint Patrick feared to reveal his reasons lest 
Miliucc maccu-Buain come to hear of them and 
he being a druid most surely disapprove. 




The New Friend 


63 


With that, Gussacht and his sisters turned dis¬ 
appointedly away, feeling that Saint Patrick was 
hiding secrets from them. As they turned away, 
however, Saint Patrick began to feel guilty at 
having denied his new friend to save himself a bit 
of bother. 

So, on the spur of the moment, he cried out, 
“Come back! Come back here, let you and I’ll be 
telling why I return the half ration.” 

Joyously, Gussacht and his sisters retraced their 
steps and sitting themselves down on a bed of 
heather, they lend sharp ears to what Saint Patrick 
had to say. 

What Saint Patrick said was: “I do be doing 
without much to eat these days that I may find 
favor with a new friend I have, who died for me.” 

Gussacht led his sisters in uproarious laughter. 

“Would you be telling us how you can find favor 
with him and he dead?” they laughed. 

Saint Patrick’s forehead wrinkled into a frown. 

“Never mind your laughing now or I won’t tell 
you another word, so I won’t,” he threatened. 

Subdued by his angry tone, Gussacht and his 
sisters kept quiet. 

Saint Patrick resumed from where he had left 
off. 

“But my new friend did not die for me alone, he 
died for you as well and you not knowing it. He 
died that all might live. But he did not stay dead; 
he rose out of his grave on the third day and went 



64 


My Saint Patrick 


off to his father’s house whose floor is the sky you 
see so blue above you.” 

“Well, there’s for you now and you’d be talking 
of cabbage,” gasped Gussacht, astonished out of 
his wits. 

“Be quiet, let you,” bade the taller of the two 
Emers, giving her brother a dig with her elbow. 

“Do you want me to tell you more, is it?” asked 
Saint Patrick, thinking he had said enough. 

“Oh indeed, tell us more,” begged Bronacht. 

“All right,” Saint Patrick agreed. “My friend 
who died for you and me and all of us, died nailed 
to a cross of wood; a hard price to have to pay for 
our sins. I often do be thinking, how does he feel 
this day and he looking down on Ireland; a land 
worshipping the Sun, the Moon, the Wind and 
the running Water, a land worshipping the presents 
he made it instead of worshipping him who gave 
them. Och , when I think of it, I feel inside me, 
there must be the great sorrow on him for Ire¬ 
land!” 

Alas, saying the like of that, Saint Patrick over¬ 
stepped himself. Gussacht and his sisters were at 
once indignant. They were brought up to believe 
the elements gods and it did not seem right one 
of their slaves should mock them. 

“Out of your mind, you are,” cried Gussacht, 
rising angrily to his feet. “I’ll tell my father on 
you, that’s what I’ll do.” 

Sudden fright filled Saint Patrick’s heart. What 



The New Friend 


65 


Miliucc maccu-Buain would say, he dared not 
think, what he would do to him, he dare not im¬ 
agine. 

Fortunately, Gussacht’s anger died as quickly 
as it had risen. All of a sudden he felt great shame 
for losing his temper and he sat down again but 
with his eyes lowered, not daring to look up at 
Saint Patrick. 

Seeing the look of repentance on her brother’s 
face, the smaller of the two Emers who up to this 
had been quiet as a mouse, turned to Saint Pat¬ 
rick and said, “We are sorry anger had its evil 
way with us. It is the way, we do not rightly un¬ 
derstand what you are telling us. Is it a story 
you made up to please us?” 

“All I have told you is true.” 

Saint Patrick burned his bridges, feeling confi¬ 
dent that his new friend would protect him no 
matter what happened. 

“Tell us then what is the name of your friend?” 
asked Bronacht. 

“Jesus.” 

Uttering the holy name, Saint Patrick bowed 
his head in reverence. 

“Jesus? The pretty name, Jesus.” 

Gussacht looked up, forgetting his shame and 
rolled the name over and over on his tongue. 

“Aye, the pretty name; but now I must be tend¬ 
ing the swine or the wolves will be after them, 
for on a spring day nothing goes so well with a wolf 



66 


My Saint Patrick 


as a bit of pig.” So saying, Saint Patrick rose out 
of his sitting and so did Gussacht, Bronacht and 
the two Emers. 

“You will be telling us more of your friend, Jesus 
when we come again?” they asked in parting. 

“With all my heart.” 

Before going to his work, Saint Patrick watched 
the children of his master out of sight down the 
mountainside. 



CHAPTER EIGHT 


Deliverance 


Marching four abreast in their own time, the 

seasons passed into years. 

* 

With the coming of each new year, Saint Pat¬ 
rick told himself, “This year I will make my es¬ 
cape.” But it was the way each time he was ready 
with mind made up to flee, an inward voice coun¬ 
selled him to stay. And staying, heeding that voice, 
he prayed and fasted and worked hard and slept 
little and played not at all. And all the while God 
was loving him dearly and planning ahead for him. 

At last, one bright early morning in the sixth 
year of his bondage, it was given to him to know 
something of the plans of God. Dozing off on his 
knees, tired from the night long of prayer, he had 
a dream. He dreamed he was standing on a rock 
on Skerry hill. Suddenly an archangel appeared 
before him. Archangel Victor, guardian angel of 
all Ireland, it was. 

Awe stricken, Saint Patrick gazed on the heav¬ 
enly being. 

Aureoled, winged, clothed in silver silk and 

67 



68 


My Saint Patrick 


beautiful to look on, the archangel smiled; love 
in his smile. And smiling he said, “Well do you 
fast and well do you pray. Jesus is well pleased 
with you. Soon you are to rise up and go to your 
fatherland.” 

Saint Patrick leaned forward, expecting to hear 
more. As he did, the archangel disappeared and 
he found himself looking on empty air. 

Then he awoke and knew not what to make of 
his dream. Of one thing, however, he felt certain; 
it was not an ordinary dream. His natural modesty 
would not allow him to call it a vison. Yet, it was 
akin to one. But visions came only to very holy 
people, he reasoned, not thinking himself one. 

Thus musing, there came over him a desire to 
pray for further enlightenment on the rock on 
Skerry hill where the archangel had seemed to 
stand. 

Feeling sure that the swine would be safe in his 
absence, he started out. Over the brow of Skerry, 
the sun was rising. Spearing the early morning 
sky with a bushel of golden darts, it was indeed a 
beautiful sight. But, for once in his life, Saint 
Patrick did not stop to admire it. Onward and 
upward, he hurried to his destination. Arriving, 
he knelt immediately in prayer. 

Time passed. The sun climbed. The sky doffed 
opalescent for pale blue attire. The trees, with 
a rattling of leaves, bade each other, “Fine day, 
thanks be to God!” While far away in the dis- 




“Well do you fast and well do you pray. 7 ’ 




















Deliverance 


71 


tance cows mooed, heavy of udder, summoning the 
milkman. 

Still Saint Patrick prayed. Still no enlighten¬ 
ment came to him. 

Giving up at last, he rose to his feet and was 
about to light out for Slemish when an idea came 
to him. Before leaving, it is what he must do, he 
must make a mark so as never to forget where the 
archangel appeared. 

Placing his feet firmly flat on the rock, he began 
to carve out their likeness, little dreaming that fif¬ 
teen hundred years later people would still be com¬ 
ing to see the mark he made. 

Walking back down the hill afterwards, Saint 
Patrick kept asking himself, “Just what the 
angel mean; ‘soon you are to rise up and go to 
your fatherland’?” 

Could it be that Miliucc maccu-Buain had lately 
taken pity on him and intended giving him his 
freedom? Perhaps Gussacht and the girls had put 
in a good word for him. Often enough he had told 
them his wish to leave their father’s service. There 
was but one way to find out, it seemed. He had to 
pass the dun on his way down. He would stop off, 
tell Miliucc maccu-Buain his dream and see if he 
had it in mind at all to let him go free. 

The sun was now in its second hour and Miliucc 
maccu-Buain’s dun was awake. Smoke climbed the 
air from the chimneys. In the kitchen, a bond- 



72 


My Saint Patrick 


maiden knelt by the hearth, fanning to flame the 
smouldering embers of yesterday. As Saint Patrick 
entered the kitchen, she stood up blushing, she 
having a soft spot in her heart for Saint Patrick, 
he being so good looking and all. 

“It’s early up you are,” she said. 

“Aw, sure the day’s half over already,” Saint 
Patrick replied, smiling. “But tell me, is the mas¬ 
ter about?” 

“He went out to the stables a while ago to tend 
the sick mare.” 

“I’ll look for him there,” said Saint Patrick. 

The bondmaiden sighed romantically as Saint 
Patrick latched the door behind him. 

The walk across the yard took but a minute. 
Entering the sick mare’s stable, Saint Patrick was 
struck at once by the air of the place; very much 
like the air of a house where some member of 
the family is ill, it was—anxious, foreboding and 
nervous too, as if at any moment the worst was 
going to happen. He could see the poor mare 
stretched out on her side, half buried in straw; 
her eyes betraying her pain. Over the mare hov¬ 
ered Miliucc maccu-Buain. 

For a few minutes, Saint Patrick watched his 
master exercise his medicinal skill without being 
noticed; then, he decided to speak up. 

“I have come to ask an advice of you, O Chief¬ 
tain,” he said. 

“Well, what is it?” 




Deliverance 


73 


Without lifting his head, Miliucc maccu-Buain 
put the question. 

“It is the way, I saw an angel in my sleep, O 
Chieftain,” Saint Patrick made answer. 

“An angel?” 

Miliucc maccu-Buain looked up, puzzled. 

“And what might I ask is an angel when it’s at 
home?” 

Hesitantly, Saint Patrick explained. 

“An angel is ... is a server of God.” 

“A server of God? Which God? Is it of Lugh 
the Sun God who rides his chariot across the sky 
by day, and by night is drawn back on his course 
along the underworld waters by a jet black swan 
that he may shine again on the morrow?” 

“No, O Chieftain; I mean the Christian God, 
the true God who died crucified for our sins on 
Calvary.” 

Intent on making himself understood, Saint Pat¬ 
rick emphasised his words vigorously. 

“A God who died?” Miliucc maccu-Buain’s eyes 
opened wide with amazement. “Is it a heretic you 
are, talking of a God who could die? Don’t you 
know, you numbskull, that the gods never die? 
They are immortal. Immortal! Do you mind me 

well?” 

“But,” Saint Patrick bravely protested, “but the 

Christian God is immortal.” 

“And you in the last breath after telling me he 

died?” 




74 


My Saint Patrick 


Miliucc maccu-Buain was fast losing patience. 

“He is immortal,” Saint Patrick persisted. “He 
rose from the dead after three days and ’tis He 
who made Lugh your Sun God and ’tis He who 
moves Lugh back and forth across the sky; believe 
me, O Chieftain, for I speak but the honest truth.” 

Despite the sincerity with which Saint Patrick 
uttered this plea, Miliucc maccu-Buain was not 
impressed; instead he showed signs of anger. “Now 
is no time for fairy tales,” he bellowed. “What 
are you doing here anyway?” 

“I came to ask an advice about my dream, O 
Chieftain.” 

Saint Patrick’s voice quivered in spite of him¬ 
self. 

“Dreams? Pshaw! Let you get back to your 
work unless you want me to give you the lash.” 

Feeling sure that Saint Patrick did not want 
the lash given him, Miliucc maccu-Buain bent 
down again over the mare, rubbing her belly with 
a green colored lotion, the while the mare whinnied 
her pain. 

Sadly, Saint Patrick turned on his heel and 
headed for Slemish, his thoughts bitter of Miliucc 
maccu-Buain and he walking. Although he had not 
related his dream, he could tell well enough Miliucc 
maccu-Buain had no thought of letting him go 
free. Och, but wasn’t he the hard cruel master 
though! And domineering and selfish! But there 
was God. Surely, He would not fail him. Ever. 



Deliverance 


75 


Busy in thought, Saint Patrick was back on 
Slemish almost before he knew it. 

Under cover of darkness, a dew-mist settled all 
over Ireland. In the morning, it would rise again, 
leaving a present of pearls for each blade of grass 
in the land. On Slemish, the dew-mist drew steam 
from the sleeping swine so that they twitched and 
moved restlessly as if bothered by flies. 

Saint Patrick, however, did not notice this, for 
he too was asleep, tired out from his long day 
and its disappointments. 

But he was not to sleep the night through un¬ 
disturbed. ’Round dawntime, a voice in his ear 
wakened him with a start. 

“Arise! Arise! Your ship lies waiting!” 

Without a doubt, it was the voice of Archangel 
Victor. 

Saint Patrick leaped to his feet, scattering the 
dew-mist, making a hole in it and looking to the 
right and to the left to see, could he see the arch¬ 
angel. 

No, there was no sign of him. 

“What am I to do?” he asked himself fever¬ 
ishly. 

Obey the call? But he knew of no ship! Where 
did it lie waiting? 

As he stood there outside his hut, floundering 
and faltering, not knowing what to do, courage 
came to him from On High. Feeling himself drawn 



76 


My Saint Patrick 


by some powerful, invisible and mysterious magnet, 
he cast caution to the winds and boldly started 
down the mountainside. 

Close by the mountain foot ran the Slige Mid- 
luachra , a main road, growing out of the sea to 
the north at Dunseveric and winding its way down 
the east coast through Miliucc maccu-Buain’s prov¬ 
ince of Dalaradia to Tara where all Ireland’s roads 
met together in a handclasp. Guided by the mag¬ 
net, Saint Patrick took to this road and gradually 
Slemish fell away behind him in the distance un¬ 
til with broad daylight it was but a speck on the 
horizon, a small hillock, you would say over which 
to try a horse’s mettle and you having nothing 
better to do in the cool of an evening. Strangely 
enough, a school of tears swam Saint Patrick’s 
grey eyes when he could no longer see it. 

Travelling then in strange country, he had no 
fear at all of losing his way. He felt quite sure 
that the power which was guiding him would lead 
him safely to his unknown destination. 

Once in a while, however, he wondered anxiously 
if Miliucc maccu-Buain would set out in pursuit. 
The overseer, he knew, was not due on Slemish 
for two days yet. Unless Gussacht and his sisters 
went looking for him, he would not be missed till 
then but by then he would have a good start. 

Thus calming his fears when the need arose, he 
continued on his way, praying or singing a snatch 
of a song, or thinking of his mother and father, 



Deliverance 


77 


imagining their surprise when he walked in on 
them. 

But not even Saint Patrick, used though he was 
to fasting, could walk the road forever without 
Hunger catching up with him. So, plucking up his 
nerve, he begged at a farmhouse for a pitcher of 
milk and a slice of bread and got it. 

Strengthened by the food, he walked on till 
light failed the sky. 

That night he courted the comfort of a dry ditch 
and it is no lie to say: no king on his bed of down 
ever closed royal eye to a better night's sleep than 
he did. 

So it was, from day to day he wended his way 
down the coast, meeting neither with set-back nor 
adventure; no, not even when passing Tara was 
he challenged but that is not to be wondered at; 
Tara was in mourning. Niall of the Nine Hostages 
was recently dead, killed by his banished foeman, 
Prince Eochaid, on the south coast of Britain, near 

the Isle of Wight. 

At length in his travelling, he came to the port 
of Inver-dea, over two hundred miles distant from 
Slemish. He saw a ship anchored there. 

“Lo; your ship!" Archangel Victor whispered in 

his ear. 

But Saint Patrick did not try to go aboard at 
once. He was tired, hungry and thirsty. Stopping 
at a shepherd's hut, he sought a meal. The shep¬ 
herd, a kindly man if ever there was one, soon set 



78 


My Saint Patrick 


food before him, saying as he did so, “You must 
lodge with me while you are in these parts.” 

“Thank you a hundred thousand times, but I’m 
not for these parts long,” Saint Patrick replied. 
“I’m sailing on yon ship.” 

“Faith if you are,” cried the shepherd and he 
looking from the door, “you’d better put a fast 
leg under you. Already, she has slipped her moor¬ 
ings.” 

Leaving his food unfinished, Saint Patrick bolted 
for the harbor. The ship, sure enough, was in mid¬ 
stream. His heart sank. If it did, it soon rose 
again. The ship was not moving but poised like 
an eagle before flight. He called and waved wildly 
to attract attention. Nobody noticed him. But 
presently a group of sailors, coming from inland, 
arrived at the harbor edge. Untieing a row boat, 
they made ready to row out to the ship. Saint Pat¬ 
rick ran towards them. Would they take him 
along? Would they, please? Followed an ago- 
nished moment while the sailors debated; then, 
“Yes, we’ll take you out with us but you’ll have to 
ask the captain can you make the voyage,” they 
said. 

Once aboard, Saint Patrick lost no time in ap¬ 
proaching the captain. 

Alas, the captain was in an angry mood; not 
at all inclined to grant a stranger a favor. 

“On no account let you seek to go with us,” he 
said roughly. 



Deliverance 


79 


“HI work hard for naught but my passage,” 
Saint Patrick pleaded. 

“Let you not be deafening me with your 
blather,” retorted the captain, ordering Saint Pat¬ 
rick put ashore before he lost his temper entirely 
and flung him overboard, food for the fishes. 

The sad and miserable and woe-begone Saint 
Patrick, it was, that footed his way back to the 
shepherd’s hut. Yet, even in that blackest of mo¬ 
ments, he did not forget to pray. What happened 
and he praying but a marvellous thing! The peo¬ 
ple of the town called after him, “Come quickly, 
for these men are calling you!” 

Fast, like a greyhound, Saint Patrick turned in 
his tracks. 

It was true; the sailors were calling him. 

“The captain has changed his mind, finding he 
has need of an extra hand to tend our cargo of 
wolfhounds,” they explained. 

Saint Patrick’s eyes shone with delight. Step¬ 
ping into the row boat, he nearly capsized it for 

joy. 




CHAPTER NINE 
Miracle in the Desert 


Ploughing her way through a stream of pure, 
rippled gold, the ship swayed lightly, washing the 
dust of the land from her sides. Saint Patrick 
had never quite realised that sunset at sea could 
be so beautiful. Out on the horizon like a veil 
lay a flesh-colored haze. From the sky, slanting 
beams of opal light rained down on the fast ebb¬ 
ing waves. Out of the sea, into the air, flashed, 
here and there, a silvery fish to fall back with a 
white splash, “lung-full” of air. Fatter and redder 
grew the sun; now a giant ball of fire balancing 
on the edge of the world in acrobatic fashion. 

But beautiful though the sunset was, Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s eyes turned from it time and time again, to 

80 




Miracle in the Desert 


81 


rest with wonder and admiration on the ship. In 
the evening light, it seemed it was no longer a 
drab cargo boat laden with fierce wolfhounds but 
an adventurous bark, taunting the seas and con¬ 
quering them with a fine disdain. 

Up aloft and towering over him, he could see 
tall, tapering masts swaying like reeds in a bog 
on a March morning and he could hear the cross¬ 
jacks creak, strained by a set of patched brown 
sails, bellied taut by the cool racing breeze. On 
the bulwarks he noticed coils of wet dripping rope. 
Set fast to the deck he saw the bailing pulley; 
buckets attached. Down below were the oars and 
oarholes and seats for the rowers; all used when 
the wind died down. Locked tight in their cages 
were the dogs whose mournful baying came to his 
ear, and they with the curl and the sheen gone from 
their coats. Stripped to the waist, bearded and 
bronzed, the crew stood about, awaiting the cap¬ 
tain’s order that would send them aloft, tending 
the sails like so many willing and skillful monkeys. 

Oh, if the sunset was beautiful, so also was 
the ship, and the two combined, Saint Patrick 
thought, one of the loveliest sights he had ever seen. 

If so, he could not stay forever lost in admira¬ 
tion. He had promised to work hard for his 
passage. It was not long before he was called 

upon to redeem his promise. 

“Go help with the dogs,” the captain bellowed, 

seeing him standing idle. 



82 


My Saint Patrick 


It was while he was obeying the captain’s order 
that Saint Patrick thought to ask a sailor when 
would the ship reach Britain. 

“Britain?” 

The sailor seemed puzzled. 

“What would we be doing near Britain and we 
headed for Italy?” he exclaimed. 

Saint Patrick gulped in dismay. 

“To Italy! But to ... to Britain the angel 
said I was to go,” he stammered. 

“Who would he be now, the angel?” asked the 
sailor. 

“If it is a Christian you were, you’d not be ask¬ 
ing me that,” Saint Patrick replied in a dazed way, 
wondering inside himself what could have hap¬ 
pened that the ship should not go to Britain. 
Surely, he asked himself, surely, he had not boarded 
the wrong ship? No, that could not be. The voice 
of the angel had been clear enough. 

But the sailor, knowing nothing of his dilemna, 
continued conversationally, “A Christian? I heard 
tell of Christians in Gaul last trip. They do be 
worshipping a new god by all accounts. Tell me 
now in all seriousness, is it one of them you are?” 

“What? What’s that you said?” 

With great difficulty, Saint Patrick tore himself 
from his thoughts. 

“Is it a Christian you are, I’m asking?” 

“Yes, and proud of it too.” 

“Faith, ’tis not much you have to be proud of,” 



Miracle in the Desert 


83 


derided the sailor. “A new god like the Christian 
god could not have half the power of the old gods. 
Anyway what I say is: if the old gods were good 
enough for our mothers and fathers, they ought 
to be good enough for us and we but spots on 
their shadows.” 

Saint Patrick made no answer. He could see 
that the sailor was trying to draw him into an 
argument and an argument just then was the last 
thing in the world he wanted. So, with a quick 
sidestep, he passed by the sailor, leaving that 
worthy with the mouth open. 

Fast for’ard, Saint Patrick made his way in 
search of the captain from whom he wished to 
learn the truth of the ship’s destination; for it 
had occurred to him the sailor might be pulling 
his leg. 

But the sailor was not pulling his leg. 

Said the captain, “We go to Gaul and thence 
overland to Italy to deliver our cargo. So let you 
not make any move to break away or I myself will 
have the great pleasure of peeling your pelt clear 
of your bones.” 

What news could have been sadder to Saint 
Patrick’s ear? 

It seemed that instead of bettering his lot, he 
had exchanged one form of slavery for another. 
But why, he asked himself, why had he been led to 
believe he was being freed? Had he beknownst 
to himself committed some sin and incurred God’s 



84 


My Saint Patrick 


displeasure? Or was this a further trial visited 
on him to try his mettle? Maybe if he were to 
kneel and pray, the answer would come to him. 

But while Saint Patrick prayed without learn¬ 
ing the reason for his plight, a group of sailors 
came to distract him. “Come and carouse with us! 
By the forty-eight sharks following us, you’ll have 
the time of your life!” they mocked. 

But Saint Patrick would have none of them and 
the sailors, seeing that they could not lead him 
into sinful ways, went off laughing, leaving him 
to himself and God. 

And so, for three nights and days, the ship sailed 
before the breeze. On the morning of the fourth 
day, she docked at Bordeaux; that is to say, she 
docked at the ruins of that city, for the northern 
European tribes, the Vandals, Sueves and Alans 
had lately passed that way, leaving it, as they had 
left every city, town and village in Gaul, the ashes 
of a pyre. 

Having unloaded the dogs, the sailors turned to 
the captain for orders. 

“We’ll head due south from this burnt place,” 
said the captain, fearing to cross Gaul straight as 
the crow flies because of the Cevennes and the 
Alps, two mountain barriers hard climbing for man 
or dog. 

“Have you travelled the route before, Cap?” 

It was entirely new to the sailors. 

“That I have not,” admitted the captain. “But 



Miracle in the Desert 


85 


I have heard tell it is flat walking to the Pyrenees 
and by keeping this side of those hills, we should 
have the flat, comfortable walking clear along the 
south coast to Italy.” 

“I’m thinking, ’twould be a whole lot easier 
sailing than walking,” said one of the sailors, small 
liking on him for using his legs. 

“And have the ship torn from under us off the 
capes of Spain, is it?” 

The captain scowled at the mere thought of it. 

“Aw, let you not mind that fellow, Cap,” put 
in another sailor. “ ’Tis suckled lying down and 
weaned sitting, he was. He’s lazy, born lazy, that’s 
what he is.” 

“Musha, the look of it’s on him.” 

A smile wiped off the captain’s scowl. 

“But let us make a start now,” he ordered. “The 

long walk lies before us.” 

At his word, the band started out; Saint Patrick 
manly but beardless among them, and he leading 
a leash of dogs. 

Not many miles had they put between them¬ 
selves and Bordeaux, however, when they came 
to the far reaching tracts of sand dunes, stretch¬ 
ing in from the sea. 

“This must be what they call a desert,” said 
the captain. “I’ve seen many the grain of sand 
in my time but I never saw so many in one place 

before.” 

“What are we going to do, Cap?” 



86 


My Saint Patrick 


Like horses waiting to be told, “Get up!” or 
“Woah!” the sailors were. 

“What’ll we do? We’ll cross over it; that’s what 
we’ll do. Without doubt we’ll come out on the far 
side by nightfall.” 

But for all his fine words, the captain and his 
band did not come out on the far side by nightfall 
and it is pitch their camp in the sand dunes, they 
had to. 

“We’ll come out of it by mid-day tomorrow,” 
said the captain, turning over on his side, settling 
his head comfortably on the dog he was using for 
a pillow and going fast asleep. 

The sailors soon followed his example. 

Even Saint Patrick, despite his troubled mind, 
closed his eyes on reality. 

And he sleeping, however, the great thing hap¬ 
pened for him. It was the way he heard the voice 
of God, a voice so rare, so sweet, that it kindled an 
almost unbearable ecstasy of joy in his breast. 

What Our Lord said was: “For two months you 
will be with these men.” 

Starting out of his sleep, Saint Patrick could 
hardly contain himself but, locking his secret safe 
inside him, he made up his mind to repay God for 
His kindness and in order to repay Him he de¬ 
cided, it was what he must do, he must try to con¬ 
vert the captain and his sailors. 

Well rested after their night of sleep, and well 
fed after the hearty breakfast they ate from their 



Miracle in the Desert 


87 


provisions, the sailor caravan lit out again, laugh¬ 
ing and joking and whistling to the dogs whose 
coats were beginning to curl and sheen again in 
the fresh, salt air. 

But by mid-day they were as deep as ever in 
sand and a bothersome worry began to knit their 
brows. 

“We may as well push on,” said the captain 
hopefully. “As much sand lies behind us now as 
lies before us. Turning back would be foolish. 
Without doubt we’ll see the end of it by sun¬ 
set.” 

Ahead, they pushed their weary way and they 
straining their eyes to the horizon, searching for 
sight of soil bedded land. Sunset came and with 
it more sand. Frightened now, the sailors began 
to mutter against the captain. 

“He has lost his bearings. He is leading us 
astray,” they muttered. 

It was true what they said and they only guess¬ 
ing; the captain had indeed lost his bearings. He 
didn’t know from Adam where he was. 

With horrible regularity, the days grew into 
weeks; the sand looming bigger and more threat¬ 
ening with each passing day. 

To make matters worse, the provisions were 
running short. Both man and dog were feeling 

the first pangs of hunger. 

In those fearful hours, Saint Patrick began to 
talk of Christ. At first what he said fell on deaf 



88 


My Saint Patrick 


ears but later the sailors began to listen to him, 
glad of anything that would take their minds off 
their plight. 

Many and hard were the questions the sailors 
put to Saint Patrick, those nerve-wracking days 
and nights in the sand dunes but Saint Patrick 
was always there with the right answer, satisfy¬ 
ing their curiosity and making them think, which 
was the good thing. 

Yet, the sailors were not convinced that Jesus 
Christ was the one, true God. Lugh the Sun God 
was their favorite. By Lugh’s guidance and light, 
it was that they expected to come free of the dunes. 

But even Lugh cannot always be seen, as the 
sailors found out to their sorrow and dismay and 
they twenty-five days wandering lost. 

That day, Lugh hid himself back of a mourn¬ 
ful cloud and while he hid, a wind storm blew up, 
a bad wind storm and the cruel havoc it played, 
picking up the sand, swirling it high in the air, 
then driving it with stinging force against the 
hapless band, blinding them, parching them. 

“Our only hope, men is to lie down till it blows 
itself out,” advised the captain. 

One and all, they laid themselves flat, using 
the dogs as a shield and the poor dogs, God help 
them, trying to use them as a shield at the same 
time. 

All of sixty miles an hour the wind blew and it 
screaming and snarling the way you would think 



Miracle in the Desert 


89 


it a lunatic in a fit. Likewise, all of sixty miles an 
hour the sand flew; it with a hiss to it like a bed 
of snakes disturbed in their rest by a mongoose. 
For three hours, it raged; then, suddenly, as it 
began, it stopped. 

If it did, it did not stop the way it began for 
Saint Patrick and the sailors. Half buried in sand, 
they were, and too weak for a while to dig them¬ 
selves out. However, when they did rise on their 
legs, they looked at one another, terror in their 
bloodshot eyes. 

Saint Patrick was the only calm one among them. 
Instead of cursing fate like the others, Saint Pat¬ 
rick knelt, thanking God for having seen them 
through alive. 

Seeing him pray, the sailors were baffled. For 
what was he praying to that God of his, now? 
Hadn’t they just taken a terrific beating, lying 
down helpless? “Christians, how are you?” they 
jeered, giving up in disgust. 

“Christians, how are you is the word,” cried 
the captain, losing his temper and dragging Saint 
Patrick to his standing. “What are you praying 
for, Christian flog?” he barked. 

“I’m thanking God for sparing us our lives,” 

explained Saint Patrick. 

“Oh, you are, are you?” 

The captain bristled with rage. 

“Well if this God of yours is so great, why don’t 
you pray him to send us food and to save us from 



90 


My Saint Patrick 


these accursed sands where we are likely to meet 
our death by starvation?” 

“That I will do.” 

In contrast to the captain’s voice, Saint Patrick’s 
was like the low whisper of a summer wind in the 
eaves. 

“That, you’d better do,” threatened the captain, 
“and mind you if your god fails us; well, we’re 
hungry men . . .” 

Faced with that cannibal threat, Saint Patrick 
dared not admit even to himself, that for days he 
had been praying Our Lord to send relief. But 
now when relief was so urgent, perhaps it would 
be different. He believed it would. 

Courageously kneeling, Saint Patrick prayed. 

Suddenly a noise of hoofbeats filled the air. 

“Look, look,” cried the sailors scarce believing 
their eyes. “A herd of swine coming this way!” 

From whence that herd of swine came, none 
could afterwards tell, but, welcoming it quickly 
like hungry leopards, the sailors bore down upon 
it and killed many. 

Saint Patrick, exhausted by the earnestness with 
which he had endowed his prayer, took no part 
in the butchery. 

For a great while then, there was a silence on 
the men and they eating and reviving the dogs 
that from hunger and privation had fainted. 

Afterwards, however, they reminded themselves 
of Saint Patrick and, turning to him, they heaped 



Miracle in the Desert 


91 


praises and gushed benedictions on his head; they 
even revered him as a god. 

This latter showed itself when one of the sailors 
on finding some honey in a withered tree stump, 
offered it to Saint Patrick in the manner in which 
pagans were accustomed to offer honey on the 
altars of their gods; it being their belief that honey 
was the best of all possible offerings, better than 
wine for instance; for it would not do at all, they 
held, to have the gods drinking too much wine and 
they depending so much on them. 

To their great surprise, Saint Patrick would 
not accept the honey. Offered in the pagan man¬ 
ner, it would be a sin for him to accept it, he said, 
and he begged them to cast off their pagan beliefs 
and to turn to Jesus Christ. 

“You will not want for the remainder of the 
journey,” he prophesied, “if you but have faith 
in Him.” 

Alas, Saint Patrick’s own faith was to be sub¬ 
jected to a severe and awful test before many 
hours had passed. 

It was the way, he retired early to rest and in 
his dreams, the devil came to tempt him. Writing 
of this temptation many years later, Saint Patrick 
said that he felt a huge rock fall suddenly upon 
him, benumbing his limbs so that he had no con¬ 
trol over them at all. Evidently, the devil, en¬ 
raged at his high virtue, chose to paralyze him that 
he might more easily work his evil way with him. 



92 


My Saint Patrick 


But just when it seemed as if the devil were 
to be successful, Saint Patrick heard Jesus bidding 
him call aloud for the sun. 

“Helias! Helias!” 

Immediately, the sun’s ancient name burst from 
Saint Patrick’s lips. 

A moment later, he awoke and, looking up at 
the sky, he saw the sun shining down on him and 
by its warmth the use of his limbs was restored 
to him. 

Two days after this, having been twenty-eight 
days lost in the sand dunes, Saint Patrick and his 
companions came to fertile land. 

For fourteen days, then, they walked; each day 
reaffirming their faith in God and finding food 
and drink for that day as Saint Patrick had fore¬ 
told they would. 

On the fourteenth day, ’round twilight time, they 
came to a town where they bought supplies for the 
remainder of their journey which was now leading 
them out of Gaul, into Italy and their destination. 

But Saint Patrick was not destined to go that 
far with them. 

True to His promise, Christ rescued him on the 
sixtieth day. 



CHAPTER TEN 
Coquina’s Tidings 


“How far would you say it was?” 

The questioner was one of three tens of monks 
on their way through Italy to the Isles de Lerins . 

“How far? That would be hard to say,” re¬ 
plied his fellow, “but look you ahead; a band of 
travellers with a pack of graceful dogs. Maybe 
they can tell us.” 

“Perhaps. But though the dogs be graceful as 
you say, the travellers are a fierce looking lot. We 
had best be on our guard.” 

Determined to protect themselves, the monks 
came together, gripping threateningly the sticks 
they carried to lean on along the way. 

Frightened by this move, the travellers who 
saw themselves outnumbered, halted in their tracks. 
To put up a fight would be useless indeed, they 
reasoned. 

“Let us flee in an opposite direction,” one of 
them cried. 

“Sound advice,” said another. 

93 



94 


My Saint Patrick 


Expressing agreement, the remaining travellers 
with one exception, fled the road, driving their 
dogs before them. 

When the dust of their going had settled, the 
monks approached the one traveller who had stood 
his ground fearless. 

“Why have your fellows run off?” they asked in 
Latin. 

Having spoken Gaelic for six years, the traveller, 
none other than Saint Patrick, found it difficult 
to use Latin again. Nevertheless he managed to 
make himself understood. 

“By your garb, I knew you for holy men,” he 
said. 

“You are a Christian then?” 

Openly distrustful, the monks crowded ’round 
him, hemming him in. 

“I am.” 

“The Lord be praised! but what are you doing 
hereabouts?” 

“I was captive to those fleeing men.” 

Their suspicions quelled, the monks relaxed and 
stood back a bit, giving Saint Patrick room to 
breathe. 

“What will you do, now you are free?” they 
asked. 

“Turn my face to Britain, my homeland.” 

Proudly, Saint Patrick voiced his intention. 

“Well, since our ways lie together a while, will 
you walk with us?” invited the monks. 



Coquina’s Tidings 


95 


“It will be the fine thing for me to be walking 
with holy men,” Saint Patrick accepted. 

Beginning to step out, Saint Patrick thought to 
ask the monks where they were headed for. 

“We are going to the monastery of Honorat on 
the Isles de Lerins off the coast of Gaul,” they 
told him. 

“Who is Honorat?” 

Saint Patrick had never heard the name before. 

“He is a very holy man who has lived the life 
of a hermit and by his faith in Christ Jesus has 
worked mighty wonders.” 

“What wonders would they be?” asked Saint 
Patrick, his face keen with the wish for knowl¬ 
edge. 

“We’ll tell you,” said the monks. “When Hon¬ 
orat first went to the Isles de Lerins to establish 
his monastery, he found the place overrun with 
snakes. Not one small step could he take without 
one of the reptiles sticking its head out of a crevice 
and spitting at him. And he was in sore distress 
till it came to him to pray. So, he prayed and he 
prayed and as he prayed the snakes began dying 
off. By the time he said amen to his prayers not 
a snake was alive.” 

“That was a mighty wonder,” Saint Patrick ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Even so, you have not heard it all; only half 
of it,” said the monks. “Although the snakes were 
dead, they were still a bother. The smell of them 



96 My Sai nt Patrick _ 

rotting polluted the air, making it unfit and dan¬ 
gerous to breathe. Again Honorat was in sore 
distress till it came to him to pray. So, he prayed 
and he prayed, this time atop a giant palm tree, 
and as he prayed the waters of the Mediterranean 
rose over the islands. By the time he said amen 
to his prayers not a snake was to be seen. 

“The wonder from Heaven, surely! ” 

Saint Patrick was visibly impressed; indeed he 
was thinking that he would like to meet Saint 
Honorat. While he was thinking, he heard a voice 
say, “Forget your home awhile. Give freely of your 
time to God. Go with these holy men to Honorat.” 

Forget his home? 

Saint Patrick swallowed a lump in his throat. 

“If you will have me, I will go with you to 
Honorat,” he said to the monks, a little sadly. . 

It is glad, not sad the monks were to have him 

with them. 

At length, they crossed the border into Gaul. 
In Gaul they followed the coast line for forty 
miles. They were then on the Cap de la Croisette. 
Looking out over the water, they could see the 
Isles de Lerins. 

Verdant and in the afternoon sunlight brightly 
sparkling, the islands appeared. On the largest 
island, the one where Honorat had built his mon¬ 
astery and which since has come to bear his name, 
Saint Patrick and the monks first turned their 
gaze. Dotted with swaying palm trees and sturdy 


Coquina’s Tidings 


97 


low stone buildings, it dominated the others, made 
them seem dependent on it; they were the chil¬ 
dren; it, the father. 

“ ’Tis even haloed,” Saint Patrick whispered in 
ecstasy to himself. 

More perceptive than the others, he had noticed 
the white, heat haze hovering over the blue water 
surrounding the island. 

Turning their eyes away from Honorat’s abode, 
Saint Patrick and the monks examined next the 
island of Sainte Marguerite. Admiringly, they took 
into acount the azured channel of Frioul which 
ran between the two islands and served as a con¬ 
stant reminder to both Honorat and Marguerite 
of the way love of God came between their earthly 
love and they never sorry it did. Never in their 
wildest imaginings could Saint Patrick and the 
monks have conjured up the cruel, mysterious 
imprisonment of “the Man in the Iron Mask” on 
Sainte Marguerite in later years. But as they 
gazed on the island, Saint Patrick and the monks 
were not trying to foresee the future; they were 
concerned only with the present. East of Sainte 
Marguerite, they beheld the island of Tradeliere 
and east of Saint Honorat, the island of Saint 
Ferreol; both little pinheads of islands. 

Having gazed their fill, Saint Patrick and the 
monks walked out to the end of Cap de la Croisette 
where, in a tiny, natural cove they found a monk 
whose duty it was to row visitors to the islands. 



98 


My Saint Patrick 


Embarking in threes and fours, they soon found 
themselves part and parcel of, “the Green Rosettes 
of the Sea.” 

In the days which followed, Saint Patrick found 
great happiness. Although he was yet an ignorant 
young man now thrown among brilliant older men, 
it was the way he made a place for himself by his 
humility and willingness to serve. Soon he won 
the love of Honorat and of many another who be¬ 
cause of Honorat’s holy influence afterwards be¬ 
came known the length and breadth of the Chris- 
tain world as a soldier of the army of Jesus Christ 
against whom no enemy could prevail. And for 
a long time after his arrival, Saint Patrick went 
daily to Honorat’s cell, seeking instruction and 
advice. Freely, willingly Honorat gave of his great 
wisdom, telling Saint Patrick that he was clearly 
chosen by Jesus for some special task which would 
be made known to him in God’s good time. 

But Saint Patrick decided for himself that his 
task lay in salvaging his own soul and like his daily 
companions, he decided to close his eyes forever 
on the world, to strive for purity of mind and 
whiteness of soul that he might be fitted for the 
after life in Heaven. 

For two years Saint Patrick bided by his deci¬ 
sion. Homesick then, he felt a great longing to 
return to Banavem Taberniae. It was not right 
that he should remain abroad so long and he free 



Coquina's Tidings 


99 


of bondage and his parents suffering on his ac¬ 
count maybe, he told himself. 

Having made up his mind to go, Saint Patrick 
wondered if Archangel Victor would come to gain¬ 
say him. 

He need not have worried; for it was God who 
had planted in his mind the seeds of homesickness 
which would take him away from the Isles de 
Lerins. 

Therefore, one day Saint Patrick went to Hon- 
orat to ask a blessing on his journey. 

Signing Saint Patrick with the Cross, Honorat 
said, “You do well to return and give joy to your 
parents. I give you my blessing and also I give 
you letters that you may be welcome at the mon¬ 
asteries by the way.” 

The Britain to which Saint Patrick was return¬ 
ing after eight years absence was still the sad 
unfortunate country. Constantinus, a common sol¬ 
dier, was emperor. Like Maximus in the past, 
Constantinus drained the land of soldiers to lay 
claim to Gaul and Spain. The invasions from 
Scotland, Ireland and Wales continued unhindered. 

In this only was it a different Britain: the natives 
no longer looked to Honorius for aid, Honorius 
himself being now in a sorry plight, defending 
the remnants of his empire against the northern 
European tribes without the aid of his valiant gen¬ 
eral, Stilicho, whom he had caused to be foully 


> > > 



100 


My Saint Patrick 


murdered at Ravenna; his trust in him having been 
undermined by the lunatic, Olympius, his pet min¬ 
ister. 

But, despite the sorry plight of his native land, 
to Saint Patrick it was home and tears of joy 
dimmed his grey eyes when he first glimpsed its 
rockbound western shore. 

For three months, he had travelled in Gaul, 
visiting the monasteries to which Honorat had 
given him letters. At Saint Martin of Tours, he 
had spent several happy days; for often, and he 
young, he had heard his mother bespeak her kin¬ 
ship with Saint Martin, founder of the monastery. 
At Auxerre, too, he had lingered a while, meeting 
there the great Bishop Amator and seeing a multi¬ 
tude of young men being trained to spread abroad 
the word of God. Indeed, he had left Auxerre won¬ 
dering if it might not be a good thing for him to 
train for missionary work. So many countries 
had not yet heard of Christ. Ireland for instance. 
Ireland with its element gods, its fairies and such¬ 
like. Oh, the idea of converting Ireland appealed 
to him more than anything else in the world! 

But now, at last being come to Britain, Saint 
Patrick hastened towards home, his mind filled 
the while with half hopes and half fears. Were 
his mother and father alive? Had their farm been 
destroyed? Banavem Taberniae; had it been re¬ 
built? 

Out of breath with hurrying, Saint Patrick ar- 

c 

t v 

t 1 s 

' c v;. 


‘ < ». 



Coquina’s Tidings 


101 


rived at Abergavenny. Strangers told him that 
Banavem Taberniae had been deserted since the 
invasion. Nothing was left of it but ruins. No, 
there was no knowledge at them of any survivors. 
Why did he not go to the senate house? At the 
senate house everything was known. 

Saddened by the word of Banavem Taberniae, 
yet still hopeful for his parents, Saint Patrick 
hurried off to the senate house. On the way, he 
passed by an old woman in her bent standing 
by the door of her house and she staring up at him 
with disbelief in her eyes. 

He had not gone very far, when the old woman 
called after him in a high pitched, squeaky, aged 
voice. 

Immediately, Saint Patrick turned in his stride. 
“Who is it? Who is it calling me by name?” he 
cried excitedly. 

Seeing the old woman, he was at a loss. He did 
not know her. 

“Is it that you don’t know me?” she wailed. 
“I’m Coquina, that’s who I am; Coquina who used 
to cook for your poor mother and father.” 

“My poor mother and father,” Saint Patrick 
interrupted. “Then . . . then it is ... ?” 

For grief he could not say the dread words. 

“Come inside with me,” said Coquina, taking 
him gently by the arm. “Come inside and I’ll be 
telling you about it.” 

Together, they went in. 



102 


My Saint Patrick 


Saint Patrick sat dazed while Coquina talked. 

Yes, his mother and father were gone from him. 
Small use trying to hide it or soften the blow 
there were kinsfolk of his in town who d tell him 
anyway. They’d been killed by the invaders like 
many other fine people. She, herself, had had the 

narrow escape. Had it not been for . . . 

From a great empty distance, Coquina’s words 
seemed to come to Saint Patrick. It was as if she 
were talking from another world and he trying not 
to hear what she said. 

But he had heard, heard all he ever wanted to 
hear. His mother and father were gone from him. 
For a long time, Saint Patrick remained in his sit¬ 
ting, not moving as much as an eyelash but star¬ 
ing straight before him into space like a man wholly 
paralyzed. 

Eventually Coquina became frightened for him. 
Donning her shawl, she went out to bring his kins¬ 
folk to him. 

The sight of his kinsfolk brought Saint Patrick 
to himself but, when he tried to speak to them, 
he burst into tears. Never before had he wept 
so bitterly. Tears pelted down his cheeks and his 
body shook with sobs. 

But Coquina and she busy wiping her own eyes, 
said: “Let him cry out his grief. He’ll be all right 
afterwards.” 

What she said came true. When Saint Patrick 



Coquina’s Tidings 


103 


shed his last tear, the pain eased in his heart and 
he was able to greet his kinsfolk. 

Good it is to tell, Saint Patrick’s kinsfolk 
were the kind hearted people. They brought him 
to their home. They treated him as a son. They 
saw to it that he did not want for bite nor sup 
nor anything he wished for as long as he remained 
under the one roof with them. 




CHAPTER ELEVEN 
Betrayed 


It happened one night, and he in his snug sitting 
in the kitchen of his kinsfolk, Saint Patrick saw a 
vision. 

What he saw was: he saw the Archangel Victor 
coming to him across the sea from Ireland. And 
in his hand, Archangel Victor had many letters. 
And it was the way, he handed Saint Patrick one 
of them. And across the top of the letter, Saint 
Patrick saw written, “The Voice of the Irish.” 
And while Saint Patrick read the letter, he heard 
speak to him the little children who lived nigh 
Fochlut wood in Miliucc maccu-Buain’s province 
where many times he had cut wattle wood. And 
what the little children were saying was: “Come 

104 






















































Betrayed 


105 


back to us, holy youth. We beg you; come back 
and walk with us once more.” And this so upset 
Saint Patrick that his eyes were blinded with tears 
and he could read no more of the archangel’s letter. 

It happened, another night and he in his sound 
sleeping, Saint Patrick had the wonderful dream. 
He dreamed, he heard the voice of Christ in prayer 
beside him. On waking he found still within him 
the words, “He who laid down his life for thee, 
He it is Who speaketh in thee.” 

One other night, it happened that Saint Patrick 
saw Our Divine Lord praying in his own soul. He 
was greatly puzzled by this at first. Afterwards, 
thinking about it, he remembered he had heard it 
said, “Jesus helps us with our prayers because we 
do not know what we should pray for as we 
ought.” 

Because of those frequent visions, Saint Patrick 
realised that God wished him to go ahead with 
the plan he had conceived while visiting Auxerre; 
that of converting Ireland. Yet, he knew he was 
not fitted for the task, being unlearned in many 
things. 

For many days then, Saint Patrick thought the 
matter over. In the beginning, he was like a man 
being pulled three ways at the one time and go¬ 
ing nowhere. There was Christ pointing the way 
to Ireland, his kinsfolk demanding that he remain 
with them, and his own idea that he ought to go 
to Auxerre, study, take Holy Orders and so fit 



106 


My Saint Patrick 


himself to follow the path indicated by God. 

But not for nothing had Our Divine Lord prayed 
beside and within Saint Patrick. God knew all 
along what Saint Patrick would do. God knew 
he would go to Auxerre. God wanted him to go 
there. 

So, it came about, Saint Patrick, having made 
up his mind, said good-bye to his kinsfolk who 
wept at his going, but it was how Saint Patrick 
consoled them, saying he was following in Christ’s 
footsteps and he must do as he was bid and no 
two ways about it. 

The town of Auxerre rises high above the Yvonne 
river. It is not now the town it was in Saint 
Patrick’s day. But if Auxerre is not the same 
town, Yvonne is the same river; rivers not being 
given to vanity like towns. 

If the river Yvonne could only be talking some¬ 
time, it would be telling of the great welcome 
Saint Patrick received at Auxerre from Bishop 
Amator. And if it was listening at all, the Yvonne 
would also be telling how it heard Saint Patrick 
bespeak his visions and his desire to convert Ire¬ 
land, and it would be telling too, how Bishop 
Amator told Saint Patrick that there was another 
young man at Auxerre with the same feeling for 
Ireland as himself. 

More than that, however, the Yvonne could not 
be telling because Bishop Amator, feeling a draught 



Betrayed 


107 


about him at that point, shuttered the windows 
and the river has yet to flow to see or hear through 
a shutter. 

But it was the way Bishop Amator introduced 
Saint Patrick to Issernius, the young man with the 
same grah (love), for Ireland as himself. 

Saint Patrick and Issernius then had the long talk 
together and they with the Gaelic on them, so that 
other students passing in and out said wonderingly 
one to another, “What strange tongue do they 
speak? ” 

After a while, Issernius, liking Saint Patrick, 
introduced him to Auxilius, his friend, saying that 
always they would be the three true friends. Saint 
Patrick and Auxilius being willing, the tie of friend¬ 
ship was formed and when their time came, they 
were ordained deacons together; their first step 
in the ladder of Holy Orders. 

Now, in the time of Saint Patrick’s deaconhood, 
a great trouble came to harass Bishop Amator. 
In the town of Auxerre lived the gay and much 
too merry, Duke Germanus. Duke Germanus as a 
youth, had been a bright scholar and for many 
years practised law at Rome. In time, he was 
made one of the seven dukes who ruled the prov¬ 
inces of Gaul. Although, he ruled his province well, 
Duke Germanus had a bad habit and it was his 
bad habit that annoyed Bishop Amator. It was 
how Duke Germanus would hang his hunting tro¬ 
phies in front of the monastery on a tree wor- 



108 


My Saint Patrick 


shipped in bygone days by pagans, believing the 
tree brought him luck. 

Fearing the habit a bad influence on his flock, 
Bishop Amator went to Duke Germanus and asked 
him to give the habit up. Duke Germanus laughed 
in his face and next day twice as many trophies 
hung from the tree. 

If they did, Bishop Amator fared forth again 
but this time he did not ask, he ordered Duke 
Germanus to give up the habit. Duke Germanus 
roared his mirth and next day three times as many 
trophies hung from the tree. 

Distracted entirely, Bishop Amator took an axe 
and cut the tree down. 

For that Duke Germanus threatened his life 
and Bishop Amator had to flee Auxerre. And he 
fleeing, however, an idea came to him: “If only he 
could draw Duke Germanus into the Church!” 

His idea riding his mind, Bishop Amator went 
to Julius, the Roman prefect, asking permission 
to make Duke Germanus a bishop. 

What Julius said was not no, but yes. 

So Bishop Amator made his way back to Aux¬ 
erre. On his arrival he went to the chapel to say 
Mass. Shortly after the Elevation, Duke Ger¬ 
manus arrived; fire in his eye, anger to his walk. 
But no sooner was he inside the chapel than the 
doors closed tight, and caught he was like a bird 
on a limed twig. When he got free, he was a 
bishop whether he liked it or not and Bishop 



Betrayed 


109 


Amator’s troubles with him were at an end because 
from that day forth, Duke Germanus was the 
changed man. He gave all he had to the poor. He 
entered the monastery and when Bishop Amator 
went to Heaven, it was Bishop Germanus who took 
his place as Abbot of Auxerre. 

If in the time of Saint Patrick’s deaconhood a 
great trouble came to trouble Bishop Amator, a 
far greater trouble came to trouble Bishop Ger¬ 
manus also in the time of Saint Patrick’s deacon- 
hood. 

Over in Britain, a fat Irish monk, by name 
Pelagius, was harming the Church by spreading a 
false doctrine. Said Pelagius: “We do not have 
to be baptised to enter Heaven.” 

But the Church said: “Palladius preaches 
heresy; Baptism is necessary.” 

Still, many Christians as well as pagans were 
won over by Pelagius, he being a clever wily 
debater; besides, he believed blindly in his own 
heresy. So, the Bishops of Britain sent word to 
Bishop Germanus, asking him to come quickly 
and fight the heresy. Bishop Germanus, however, 
could not leave Auxerre without permission from 
his superiors at the monastery of Arles to the 
south. Receiving his request at Arles, Bishop 
Lupus forwarded it to Rome to Pope Celestine. 
The Pope thought the matter so urgent he gave 
immediate consent, sending his favorite archdea- 



110 


My Saint Patrick 


con, Palladius, to lend whatever aid possible. 

Bishop Germanus then started out for Britain, 
taking with him Saint Patrick and many others. 

It was while fighting Pelagius that the Bishops 
of Britain drew Bishop Germanus’ attention to 
Ireland. Ireland, they said, was also in grave dan¬ 
ger from Palagius, he being an Irishman, and al¬ 
though the Christians in Ireland were not numer¬ 
ous, it would do no harm to protect them and 
perhaps win other converts at one and the same 
time. 

“I have the very man for the job,” said Bishop 
Germanus, presenting Saint Patrick. 

But the British clergy did not take kindly to 
Saint Patrick at all. Ignorant and uncouth, they 
thought him. Not wishing to hurt Bishop Ger¬ 
manus’ feelings, however, they compromised, say¬ 
ing, “Let us have a conference to decide who 
shall go.” 

“Very well, let us have a conference,” agreed 
Bishop Germanus half-heartedly. 

Sad it is, but little that was praiseworthy was 
said of Saint Patrick at the conference. All but 
Bishop Germanus were against him. Palladius, 
the Pope’s emissary, did not think him suited at 
all for the job. Maybe Saint Patrick did know 
the country and the people, maybe he could speak 
the Gaelic, but of what earthly use was that if he 
were not clever enough to confound the arguments 
of disbelievers? 



Betrayed 


111 


But at this point in the proceedings, Bishop 
Germanus took the floor, pleading for Saint Pat¬ 
rick, voicing his great faith in him, even going 
so far as to say he believed Saint Patrick already 
appointed to the mission by a higher authority 
than theirs—by God. 

Against their will, the British clergy was won 
over. 

Unfortunately, one man at the conference still 
held out. It was this man who rose in his stand- 
ing just as the British clergy had made up their 
minds, and denounced Saint Patrick. 

“I know something against Patrick/’ he cried. 

Spoken harshly, this unexpected denunciation 
of himself caused Saint Patrick to raise his eyes 
to see who it was had made it. Alas, it both 
grieved and shocked him to see it was one whom 
he had long considered a friend, one whose name, 
he himself never afterwards revealed. 

“What is it you know?” 

The British clergy seemed pleased. 

“In his youth, he committed a sin, a grave sin.” 

“Is it true what this man says?” the clergy 
asked Saint Patrick. 

“Yes, it is true. But I confessed and was for¬ 
given the sin and it was only because I was trou¬ 
bled in my mind as to whether I had done suffi¬ 
cient penance that I confided in him who now 
holds the sin against me.” 

Turning back to him who stood willing to betray 



112 My Saint Patrick 

Saint Patrick, the British clergy asked, “What 
was the sin?” 

Leaning over, the unfaithful friend whispered the 
answer. 

Saint Patrick sighed and paled with anguish, 
feeling himself humiliated and dishonored for all 
time. 

But Jesus did not think so. 

“We have seen with anger him who betrayed 
you,” was what Our Lord told him to console him. 

Meanwhile, the British clergy, swayed by the 
knowledge of his sin, had condemned Saint Pat¬ 
rick and awarded the Irish mission to Palladius. 

The Pope would be pleased with them for ap¬ 
pointing Palladius, they hoped. 

Back at Auxerre, Saint Patrick tried to stifle 
his grief with long hours of study and prayer. 
But try as he might, he could not help thinking 
of his cruel betrayal. 

Seeing him downcast, Bishop Germanus tried 
to console him, telling him, “You have been with 
me thirteen years now. Before that you were nine 
years with Bishop Amator. All the time, you have 
served God faithfully, cherishing an ideal to bring 
greater glory to His name. Is it likely that He 
would desert you now? No, He has but delayed you 
for some reason of His own.” 

Yet there were days when not even Bishop 



Betrayed 


113 


Germanus could console Saint Patrick, days when 
news of Palladius arrived at Auxerre adding fur¬ 
ther anguish to his already overburdened heart. 

Palladius, it seemed, had landed safely at Inver- 
dea, the very port from which Saint Patrick had 
sailed twenty-four years before. He had met with 
a hostile reception from Nathi, a chieftain there¬ 
abouts, but was going ahead as best he could. 

Later came word, Palladius had established 
three churches. He needed more priests, more 
bishops, however, and was crossing to Britain to 
seek volunteers. 

After that there was no word of Palladius for 
quite some time. 

Then, one day, Saint Patrick went to Bishop 
Germanus, saying: “Since I was not thought fit to 
go to Ireland a bishop, could I not go a priest to 
help Palladius who may be in trouble?” 

Touched by Saint Patrick’s unselfishness, Bishop 
Germanus responded to his plea. 

“I will ordain you a priest and you may go to 
Ireland,” he promised. “But you will find it all 
for the best if I send with you a senior priest to 
vouch for you to Palladius who may distrust you 
if you go alone.” 

Kneeling down, Saint Patrick kissed Bishop 
Germanus’ feet in gratitude. 

Thus it came about that Saint Patrick, now 
raised to the priesthood, started out one bright 



114 


My Saint Patrick 


early August morning from Auxerre, having for 
his companion, Segitus, a senior priest. 

But at Evereux, a town not far distant from 
their starting point, they met with Benedictus 
and Augustus, two of Palladius’ disciples and they 
heading for Auxerre. 

After they had exchanged greetings, Saint Pat¬ 
rick asked why they left Ireland. 

“We bring bad tidings,” replied Benedictus. 

“Bad tidings? What are they?” 

Fearful of yet another obstacle to his mission, 
Saint Patrick’s voice trembled. 

Grieving, Benedictus gave his news. 

“Palladius died recently in Britain.” 

“Palladius? Dead? Oh, may God rest his soul 
in peace!” Saint Patrick exclaimed in a shocked 
voice. “But what shall we do now?” he added, 
turning to Segitus. 

“We had best return with Augustus and Bene¬ 
dictus,” Segitus wisely counselled, knowing that 
it would not be proper for them to continue with¬ 
out first consulting Bishop Germanus. 

“Aye, I suppose we’d best return.” 

Saint Patrick’s heart was lead inside him. 

Together with his companions, having told the 
sad tidings to Bishop Germanus, Saint Patrick 
sought to be excused, thinking to go to the chapel 
to find solace in prayer. 

But Bishop Germanus would not excuse him. 



Betrayed 


115 


What he did was, he excused Augustus Benedictus 
and Segitus and when the door of the room had 
closed quietly behind them, he said to Saint Pat¬ 
rick, “Do you think you could fill Palladius’ place?” 

“Fill Palladius’ place! Is it joking you are, my 
lord?” 

Saint Patrick could not believe his ears. 

Cloaking his own emotion with a mask of sever¬ 
ity, Bishop Germanus replied, “No, I am not jok¬ 
ing. But you have not answered my question. Do 
you think you could fill Palladius’ place?” 

His eyes welling up with tears of joy, Saint 
Patrick nodded his assent. 

“Very well. We must make preparations. First, 
I shall have to make a bishop of you.” 

Striding across the room, Bishop Germanus 
tugged at the bell rope to set things moving. 



CHAPTER TWELVE 


Ireland at Last 


An Irish morning is an Irish morning and you will 
not find another morning like it this side of Heaven. 

Wake up early, do, and go abroad before sun¬ 
rise. The air you will find grey and maybe cold 
but it is the fresh air nevertheless; a breath of it 
will clear the cobwebs of sleep from your dream be¬ 
fuddled brain. Shortly, your spirit surges upward 
within you, wild and uncontrollable. For no reason 
at all, you feel like ripping off your boots, and 
you do and you run and run and run through 
the mystical, white mists which wet the green grass 
at your feet, dew bathing them. By-and-by, with 
the rising sun, it is the way you will be looking 
about for a pony loose in the fields and, finding 
one, you entice him to you with a wisp of wild 
oats from the ditch top and, throwing yourself 
across his back and sinking your heels in his soft 
sleek sides, you ride with the wind, heading for 
the sun, trying to come on it before it climbs out 
of reach. But you never will get to it in time. 
Soon, too soon, the hours will have gone from you. 

116 



Ireland at Last 


117 


Looking across the dreamily undulating grasslands, 
you will see distant chimneys giving off, clear, blue, 
turf smoke. Herdsmen dot the fields, driving in 
the cows. It is milking time. It is breakfast time. 
You feel a hunger coming on you such as you have 
never known and turning the pony ’round, you 
will head for home, thinking of stirabout and bacon 
sliced thin from the fletch which hangs temptingly 
down from the kitchen rafters and eggs new-laid 
and butter of your own making and milk from the 
cow to the table and griddle bread hot off the 
spit and tea strong, black tea stewed a while 
over a turf ember on the hearth. 

Ah, yes, an Irish morning is an Irish morning 
and you’ll not find another morning like it this 
side of Heaven, that much is certain. 

However, although Saint Patrick did arrive in 
Ireland in the youth of the morning, it is hardly 
likely that he ran barefooted in the wet grass, 
and he nearing fifty, an easy mark for rheumatism, 
chilblains, head colds and the like; nor would it 
be right to infer that he chased the sun; as for 
his appetite; well, that is something else again, 
if he wasn’t feeding his soul with fasting, he ate a 
good one, no doubt. 

But to go back a step or two of the road. After 
leaving Auxerre, and he a bishop well provided for 
with gold and silver, Saint Patrick crossed over to 
Britain where he had a boat made and a movable 
wooden altar and a bell and bought besides any 



118 


My Saint Patrick 


number of religious objects against the time when 
he would build churches in Ireland. That being 
done and all in order, Saint Patrick went among 
the British clergy, seeking disciples; the two or 
three with him from Auxerre being too few for 
his needs. 

Everything then being in readiness for his mis¬ 
sion, Saint Patrick went on a trip to Abergavenny 
to bid his kinsfolk farewell only to find that they 
were against his going. He would be killed for 
sure, they wailed and by tears and by coaxing and 
by gifts and finally by angry words, they tried to 
stay him. 

But Saint Patrick had his mind made up, so he 
said good-bye, tearing himself from the grasp of 
his kinsfolk, they, in their grief, having clutched 
at his white woollen robes. 

That same day, Saint Patrick sailed down the 
Bristol Channel; the prow of his boat pointed Ire- 
landwards. 

Two days later, having suffered a buffeting and 
been driven off his course four times by fierce, wild 
winds and mountainous seas, Saint Patrick put 
into port at Inver-dea where a flock of sharp winged 
sea gulls greeted him, filling the early morning air 
with welcoming screams and hoping for some scraps 
to be thrown them for their trouble. 

Looking out on the land, Saint Patrick mur¬ 
mured wistfully, “It hasn’t changed one small bit; 
’tis as beautiful, as soul stirring as ever.” 

But the land looking back and judging solely 



Ireland at Last 


119 


from appearances, could not say the same for 
Saint Patrick. A little sadly, it noticed the hair 
above his shaven poll streaked sil ver-white; so too 
his beard and there was a stoop to his shoulders 
not there when he went away. 

Unaware of the land's searching gaze, Saint 
Patrick bestirred himself, remembering that he had 
a definite purpose in landing at Inver-dea. 

It was the way, he wished to look in on Sylvester 
and Solonius, two of Palladius' disciples left behind 
by Augustus and Benedictus when they set out 
for Auxerre with the news of Palladius’ death. 

So, taking with him several disciples, Saint Pat¬ 
rick made his way inland and, having asked the 
way from an obliging shepherd, soon found himself 
at Sylvester and Solonius' house, for which hut 
would be the more correct name. 

First greetings and inquiries as the health and 
happiness soon dying down, Sylvester said to Saint 
Patrick, “The druids up Tara way have been busy 
foretelling your coming, my lord." 

Saint Patrick chuckled. 

“They have, have they now?" he said. “And 
what is it they've been saying, might I ask?" 

“This— 

Adzehead will come over stormy sea; 

His mantle hole-headed , his staff crook-headed , 

His table in the east of the house , 

All his household shall answer him , 

Amen , Amen. )} 



120 


My Saint Patrick 


Saint Patrick’s chuckle grew to a laugh. 

“Would you doubt the druids!” he cried. “But 
at that it’s not such a bad picture, although they 
do call my altar a table and as for Adzehead . . . ! 
Adzehead! . . . Hoho, hohohoho, hohohohooooo- 
ooo!” 

Small wonder Saint Patrick’s laughter got the 
best of him; for, for all the world, his hat did look 
like an adze, that is to say like a shovel. 

But even while Saint Patrick laughed, Nathi 
son of Garchu, the chieftain thereabouts, came 
suddenly and without warning into the house, a 
hard, hostile look in the steel-blue eyes of him. 

“Sylvester, who are these strangers?” 

Nathi’s voice was scornful the way you would 
be thinking, he thought Saint Patrick and his disci¬ 
ples a roving band of lepers. 

“Nathi, O Chieftain, they are Bishop Patrick 
and his disciples come from overseas to guide us 
in our work,” Sylvester made answer. 

“Oh, they are, are they?” 

Nathi paused. 

Seeing his opportunity, Saint Patrick spoke up. 

“Nathi, O Chieftain, I was about to go and ask 
leave of you to stay a while in your province.” 

“That you cannot do. I won’t have it at all at 
all,” Nathi roughly denied. “Let you be gone from 
here by nightfall.” ' 

A frown puckered Saint Patrick’s brow. 



Ireland at Last 


121 


“Surely, I have given no cause for offence, 
Nathi, O Chieftain?” he asked. 

“Offence? No, that you haven’t; I’ll say that 
for you,” answered Nathi, his voice softening a 
little. “But all the same you must be from here 
by nightfall: I’m in bad enough with the High- 
King as it is for letting Palladius and his men into 
the country.” 

“Very well, Nathi, O Chieftain, I will do as you 
say.” 

Understanding Nathi’s fear of the High-King, 
Saint Patrick gave way with good grace. 

And with that, Nathi took himself off, looking 
stubborn and fierce as ever. 

“The hard man, surely,” Sylvester muttered. 
“Were it not for his Christian wife, Solonius and 
I would have been driven out long since.” 

But Saint Patrick said nothing. He sighed in¬ 
stead, troubled by the thought that if the kings 
and chieftains rejected him, the tribes over which 
they ruled would do likewise, leaving him helpless; 
his mission a failure. 

Consolation came, however, with the realisation 
that he was not needed in Nathi’s province as 
much as in other provinces where nobody was 
spreading word of Jesus; no Sylvester, no Solonius. 

So, by the light of a mist-haloed, rain-filled moon, 
Saint Patrick sailed out of Inver-dea, steering a 
northward course while the harbor fish fast fol- 



122 


My Saint Patrick 


lowed in his wake. People with a knowledge of 
such things do be saying that the fish were angry 
with Nathi for driving Saint Patrick away and that 
they made up their minds to go elsewhere and 
never come back. And those people have proof 
of their story. 

“Was ever a fish caught in the harbor since?” 
they ask knowingly. 

Patient but tired fishermen know the answer 
which is, no. 

Scudding along before a sharp breeze, Saint 
Patrick’s ship made fast time. For a couple of 
hours, it continued to do so; then, a storm blew 
up hard and Saint Patrick, fearing to be driven up 
on the sharp rocks of the coast, put in at “the Isles 
of the Children of Lir.” 

Off the Dublin coast, these islands, properly 
speaking, are not islands at all, but islets or 
“isleens.” Yet they furnished Saint Patrick with 
a safe anchorage in consequence of which, one of 
them is presently called, Inispadraic, the Island of 
Patrick. 

Next morning, the sea being calm and well man¬ 
nered, Saint Patrick continued on his journey as 
far as the mouth of the Boyne river where Lorn- 
man, one of his British disciples, disembarked to go 
inland to the Fort of the Alder; there to visit and 
perchance convert his friend, the wife of Fedilmid 
son of Logaire, the High-King. 

Wishing Lomman luck and giving him his bless- 



Ireland at Last 


123 


ing, Saint Patrick sailed on and did not drop an¬ 
chor again until he came to the spot he had in 
mind for a landing place, which place was on the 
shores of Strangford Loch near Miliucc maccu- 
Buain’s province of Dalaradia. 

Where the river Slaney joins the loch, Saint 
Patrick went ashore and with the help of his dis¬ 
ciples dragged his boat up on dry land and hid it 
among the frond ferns for fear ’twould be stolen. 

While thus engaged, they were seen from a dis¬ 
tance by a slave of Dichu, the chieftain there¬ 
abouts. Fast as his bare toes would spread them¬ 
selves, the slave ran with the news to his master. 

Thinking that he was about to be attacked by 
some unknown enemy, Dichu at once called to his 
men and his dogs and fearlessly set out to give 
battle. 

Meanwhile, Saint Patrick and his disciples un¬ 
suspectingly pushed their way inland, glad of the 
chance to stretch their legs after the long sea 
voyage. Suddenly, Saint Patrick saw a ferocious 
wolfhound come tearing over a nearby ditch, obvi¬ 
ously intent on attacking him. In a flash there 
came to him the knowledge he gleaned of wolf¬ 
hounds the time he fled Ireland thrown in with 
a cargo of them. 

Standing stock-still, he stared at the onrushing 
hound, saying a bit of a prayer at the same time 
just to be on the safe side. 

Used to seeing his quarry turn and flee, the 



124 


My Saint Patrick 


hound knew not what to make of the white, priestly 
robed stranger who eyed him with such fearless 
eyes. Puzzled and ill at ease, he stopped short in 
his swift running, lowered his handsome head, 
sniffed suspiciously; then, in an ever narrowing 
semi-circle, he moved on Saint Patrick. 

Saint Patrick stood his ground, unwaivering. 

Almost within reach now, the hound, weaving 
and bobbing, sniffed again in an effort to catch 
Saint Patrick’s scent. 

“Come here and lie down!” 

With startling suddenness, Saint Patrick’s brave, 
masterful voice rang out. 

As if lashed with a whip, the hound flinched. 

Saint Patrick tried again. 

“Come here, I said!” 

Slinking now, the hound growled. 

Saint Patrick stamped his foot strongly, “Come 
here!” he cried. 

Mastered, the hound flopped to his belly and 
came crawling. 

Bending down, Saint Patrick calmly scratched 
him behind the ear. 

In a minute the hound was thumping his tail 
against the ground the way people afar thought 
thunder was blowing in from the sea. 

Watching the performance from a hilltop in the 
distance, Dichu and his followers eyed one an¬ 
other askance. Convincingly, Dichu pronounced, 
“These men are not enemies whoever they be, 



Ireland at Last 


125 


else the dog would have them in ribbons by now.” 

And with that, he started downhill towards 
Saint Patrick, bidding his followers remain where 
they were unless he called for help. 




CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
The End of Miliucc maccu-Buain 


“Dichu, could I trouble you for a place to say 
Mass?” 

“What is it: Mass?” 

“The sacrifice which we Christians offer God.” 

“Oh! And you want a place to offer it, is that 
it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well now, let me see . . .” 

Dichu fondled his beard while searching the 
pigeon holes of his mind. 

“Ah, I have it. Would the barn yonder suit 
your purpose?” 

“Do you mean you’d let me have it?” 

Saint Patrick was slightly incredulous, for it was 

126 




The End of Miliucc maccu-Buain 127 


a well-built barn of finest wattle wood, very valu¬ 
able. 

“And what else would I mean? Sure, you can 
have it. Have it as long as you want it.” 

Giving Dichu his hand, Saint Patrick ejaculated, 
“God bless you for a fine man, Dichu!” 

This friendly conversation which took place the 
day after Saint Patrick and Dichu had met for 
the first time across the body of the mastered wolf¬ 
hound would indicate that Dichu had been won 
over by Saint Patrick. Such indeed was the case. 
Moreover, Dichu had invited Saint Patrick to visit 
with him a while at his dun . That Saint Patrick ac¬ 
cepted the invitation goes without saying. Now, 
he was preparing to celebrate his first Mass on 
Irish soil in the barn so hospitably placed at his 
disposal by his host. 

But first, the barn had to be cleared and its con¬ 
tents—tackling, harness, carts, a couple of fox 
pelts and a deerskin drying on the walls—stowed 
away elsewhere. 

Saint Patrick then moved in his altar, his altar 
cloths, his vestments and many ornaments suit¬ 
able to transforming a barn into a chapel. 

All that being done and well done, Saint Pat¬ 
rick consecrated the barn to Almighty God and 
readied himself for Mass; not without having in¬ 
vited Dichu and his household to attend in the 
hope that eventually they would cast aside their 
pagan beliefs. 



128 


My Saint Patrick 


Kneeling with Saint Patrick’s disciples in front 
of the altar, Dichu and his household were brim¬ 
ming over with curiosity. Saint Patrick had al¬ 
ready told them so much of Jesus, it was all they 
could do to contain themselves. 

Concerned now, only with the sacredness of his 
task, Saint Patrick mounted the altar steps. 

“In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” 

“Amen.” 

“Introibo ad altare Dei.” 

“Ad Deum, qui laetificat juventutem meam.” 

A disciple giving the responses, Mass was on. 

Over the tiny congregation fell a hushed silence. 
With the intent eager look of a cat by a mousehole 
at night, Dichu watched Saint Patrick’s every 
move while the disciples with bent heads and 
clasped hands prayed earnestly. Came the First 
Gospel. A scraping of rising feet disturbed the 
quiet. Ignorant of the ritual, Dichu and his house¬ 
hold were slower to their feet than the disciples, 
prolonging the noise. A rustle of garments then as 
all genuflected, followed by a thudding of knees 
as the kneeling posture was resumed. 

“Credo in unum Deum Patrem omnipoten- 
tem . . .” 

Saint Patrick reverently began the Creed. 

Outside a rooster crowed, adding in some strange 
way to the solemnity of the occasion. 

Now, Saint Patrick was washing his hands and 
taking the wine. 



The End of Miliucc maccu-Buain 129 


This, Dichu greatly admired; not that he under¬ 
stood the significance of the ritual; no, it was that 
in comparison with the messy, often nauseating 
rites of paganism, it seemed so much more genuine 
and yet so simple. 

Gradually the hushed silence in the little chapel 
became tense. The climax was approaching. The 
great moment when Jesus would be present in the 
Flesh was at hand. 

Closing their eyes, bowing their heads on their 
chests, Saint Patrick’s disciples prayed silently, 
filled with the Holy Spirit. 

Not so Dichu and his household. They remained 
with heads held high, eyes wide open, not missing 
a thing. 

Lost in a transport of bliss, Saint Patrick turned 
and elevated the chalice. 

Thrice, rang the privileged bell. 

Saint Patrick intoned:— 

“Take and drink ye all of this, FOR THIS IS 
THE CHALICE OF MY BLOOD OF THE NEW 
AND ETERNAL TESTAMENT, THE MYS¬ 
TERY OF FAITH: WHICH SHALL BE SHED 
FOR YOU AND MANY, TO THE REMISSION 
OF SINS. 

“As often as ye do these things, ye shall do 
them in remembrance of Me.” 

Kneeling, Saint Patrick adored the Host. 

Rising, he elevated the chalice as before. 

Again, the bell rang three times, Saint Patrick’s 




130 


My Saint Patrick 


disciples striking their breasts to its ringing. 

Ever alert, Dichu noticed a sweet air of sanctity 
pervade the barn. Presently, a feeling of great 
peace filled his heart. He relaxed, leaning back 
on his ankles. His eyes closed. To all intents and 
purposes, he was asleep. But he was not. Inside 
him was being born a yearning for the new faith. 
His yearning found an enemy in Tradition, how¬ 
ever. Rearing its powerful head, Tradition spoke 
to him in this wise: 

“What! Will you turn from the faith of your 
forefathers because of a sacrifice you don’t even 
know the meaning of?” 

Perplexity darkened Dichu’s brow for the re¬ 
mainder of the Mass. 

After Mass, however, Dichu carried his troubles 
to Saint Patrick who reasoned, “Your forefathers, 
Dichu, never had the chance to know the true 
God; if they had, they would have loved and 
followed Him.” 

His worries banished, Dichu proclaimed: “You’re 
right Bishop Patrick, you’re right. You’ve hit the 
peg square on the head. From this day forth the 
household and myself are Christians to a man.” 

What could Saint Patrick say to that? 

He had actually won his first converts. 

Although Dichu was a kind hearted man, will¬ 
ing to have him stay in his house forever and his 
first convert to boot, Saint Patrick could not 



The End of Miliucc maccu-Buain 131 


dawdle with him forever. All Ireland lay waiting 
to be converted. Besides, he had important busi¬ 
ness up Slemish way. 

So, one morning Saint Patrick went to Dichu, 
saying, “I must leave you, a cara (my friend).” 

Dichu was dismayed. 

“Why so?” he demanded fretfully. 

“According to your Irish law, Dichu, I am still 
the slave of Miliucc maccu-Buain and will be till 
I buy back my freedom.” 

“You a slave? Pshaw!” Dichu exclaimed, but 
almost immediately added, “Maybe you're right 
at that, Bishop Patrick. The law is the law and 
there is no denying it. But let you listen to me; 
there is a married daughter of Miliucc maccu- 
Buain’s living near here . . .” 

“Would her name be Bronacht?” Saint Patrick 
interrupted. 

“How in the world did you guess it?” 

Saint Patrick laughed at Dichu’s expression. 

“Why man, I know Bronacht since she was no 
higher than my knee,” he explained. “But I’ll 
not go see her till I’ve settled with her father.” 

“Then, ’tis settled. You’ll go. Will you be com¬ 
ing back this way at all?” 

“Oh, indeed I will! If it’s not too much trouble 
to you, Dichu, I’d like to leave the boat and the 
things in the chapel with you against my return.” 

“No trouble at all, Bishop Patrick. I’ll be happy 
to do it for you.” 



132 


My Saint Patrick 


With that Saint Patrick blessed Dichu, thanked 
him for his fine hospitality; then, calling to his dis¬ 
ciples he departed up country towards Miliucc 
maccu-Buain’s place. 

Meanwhile Lomman, Saint Patrick’s British dis¬ 
ciple was drawing near his destination, the Fort 
of the Alder in the royal province of Meath. See¬ 
ing the Fort in sight, he sat down on the mossy 
river bank to read his Bible a bit and seek spiritual 
guidance for his attempt to convert Fedilmid’s 
wife. 

In an adjoining field a group of young lads were 
playing hurley. For a while, they paid Lomman no 
attention but then, one more curious than the rest 
forsook the game and approached him. 

“What is it you’re reading, stranger?” he asked 
boldly. 

“Sit down beside me here and I’ll tell you.” 

Used to the ways of young lads, Lomman did 
not mind being disturbed. 

Before long he was reading the Bible aloud and 
the young lad was pestering the life out of him 
with questions at the rate of a mile a minute. 

This went on for quite some time. The young 
lad’s companions finished their game and went 
home. Shortly, a queenly lady came wandering 
distractedly along the river bank. 

“My mother! She’s looking for me!” cried the 



The End of Miliucc maccu-Buain 133 


lad, a sudden nervousness to his voice as if he ex¬ 
pected a scolding for not going home long ago. 

“Don’t be afeared, lad,” counselled Lomman. 
“I will stand up for you and say it was all my 
fault.” 

Having heard her son cry out, the queenly lady 
came hurrying towards him. 

The nearer she came the more familiar she 
seemed to Lomman. 

Was it possible, he asked himself, staring hard. 
Yes, it was. It was his friend, the wife of Fedil- 
mid! 

To describe the joy of that meeting between 
Lomann and Fedilmid’s wife would be to lay 
golden eggs of happiness on paper where they 
would, no doubt, get broken, and that would never 
do. Suffice it to say, Fedilmid’s wife brought 
Lomman to her home where together with her hus¬ 
band and her son, she soon fell under the spell of 
Lomman’s Christian teaching and was converted; 
indeed Fedilmid, her husband proved so gracious, 
he even gave Lomman a measure of land to build 
a church, saying, “When your superior, Bishop 
Patrick, comes this way, the finished church will 
be the great surprise to him.” 

After a day and a night and another day of walk¬ 
ing, Saint Patrick came to the haunts of his slave 
days. 



134 


My Saint Patrick 


Lord, but he had the grand time telling his dis¬ 
ciples all about his herding swine on Slemish and 
the time, when in a dream, he saw the Archangel 
Victor on Skerry. 

. . and way up there,” he added, pointing 
towards Skerry, “you see the dun of my old master, 
Miliucc maccu-Buain.” 

“Faith,” ventured Loarin, one of his disciples, 
“your old master must have the big fire put down 
in the kitchen. Will you look at the smoke pour¬ 
ing from the place!” 

A worried look clouded Saint Patrick’s eyes as he 
beheld great coils of dense, grey smoke rise brood- 
ingly into the air over the dun. 

All of a sudden the smoke was pierced by flames. 
Like kittens ’round a saucer of milk the bright 
red, fierce yellow and leaf green tongues of fire 
lapped their way skyward. 

The dun was on fire. 

Gathering their robes high about them, Saint 
Patrick and his disciples ran to lend aid. 

By the time they got there, the dun was a solid 
wall of flame. 

“Uisce! Uisce! Uisce!” 

Despairingly, an hysterical servant called for 
water. 

Darting forward, Saint Patrick caught the serv¬ 
ant by the arm. 

“Where is everybody?” he demanded. 



The End of Miliucc maccu-Buain 135 


“Gone . . . gone to the river for water,” chat¬ 
tered the servant. 

Shaking his head at the hopelessness of the situ¬ 
ation, Saint Patrick stepped back and rejoined 
his disciples. 

The flames continued to soar and roar, now 
like the East Wind trapped in a gully, now like 
water falling from a great height. 

Suddenly, with horrifying clarity, a blood-cur¬ 
dling scream went up from the burning building. 

“Ullagone! Ullagone! ’Tis the master!” wailed 
the hysterical servant, wringing his hands in an¬ 
guish. 

Shocked to the marrow, Saint Patrick bowed his 
head. 

To attempt to rescue Miliucc maccu-Buain would 
be suicide. 

“We can do nought but pray,” he mourned. 



CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
Rus and Bennen 


The ancient writers say that the cause of the fire 
at Miliucc maccu-Buain’s was this: 

Now when Miliucc heard that his slave was 
coming to see him, to the end that he should, at 
the close of his life, adopt, as it were, by force, 
a religion which he disliked lest he should 
be in subjection to a slave and that he (the 
slave) should lord it over him, he commit¬ 
ted himself to flames at the instigation of the 
devil and his own accord. Having collected 
around him every article of his property, he 
was burnt up in the house in which he lived 
as a king. 

This, despite the fact that Saint Patrick was 
hardly in a position at that time to force his re¬ 
ligion on anybody. 

Consider, too, that Miliucc’s son, Gussacht, and 
his daughters, the two Emers, were converted in 
the days following the fire. Moreover, they at¬ 
tached themselves to Saint Patrick and until death 
were numbered among his most ardent disciples. 
Still, you never can tell. Those times were the 


136 



Rus and Bennen 


137 


peculiar and ancient times. Queer things hap¬ 
pened. Certainly, queerer things were yet to hap¬ 
pen for Saint Patrick. 

But to resume: 

True to his word, Saint Patrick soon returned 
to Dichu’s territory where he devoted himself to 
converting the natives and establishing for them 
a church at a place called Rathcolpa. 

It happened, during those days, that Dichu many 
times made mention of Rus, his brother who lived 
not far away to the south, at Brechtan. Eventu¬ 
ally, Saint Patrick made up his mind to pay Rus 
a visit. 

So, to that end, he borrowed a chariot from 
Dichu who hinted that in the matter of becoming 
a Christian, Rus might not prove an easy nut to 
crack. In this, Saint Patrick found that Dichu 
was not guilty of an exaggeration. 

Between the two brothers was a world of dif¬ 
ference. For one thing, Rus looked a great deal 
older than Dichu and where Dichu was soft hearted 
and easy going, Rus was cold and crabby; always 
with the hard word, so to speak. 

“Bishop Patrick,” said Rus, “I am no fool like 
my brother who changes his mind with every fresh 
wind blowing in from the sea. I worship the old 
gods. I shall continue to worship them.” 

To hear Dichu thus ridiculed by his brother, 
scalded Saint Patrick to the marrow but, wise 
man, he did not show his hurt. 



138 


My Saint Patrick 


Answering Rus, “I know just how you feel,” 
he said, “but since the two of us cannot be right 
thinking differently on the same matter, suppose 
you unbend yourself and tell me something of the 
old gods; it may be I am wrong, it may be you can 
change me to your way of thinking.” 

“At last you’re talking sense,” said Rus, bright¬ 
ening up. “I will tell you of the old gods and 
you’ll come to believe in them too, see if you don’t.” 

“But before you begin,” Saint Patrick inter¬ 
vened, “let us strike a bargain. You tell me of 
the old gods. Let me tell you of the Christian God 
and if it should be the way one of us should want 
to change gods afterwards, let that one build a 
house to the god of his choice.” 

With a shake of the hand, Rus agreed to the 
bargain; then, he began his story of the old gods, 
the pagan gods. 

Lord what a long winded, garbled account, it 
was, that he gave! In all truth, he had a god for 
every fresh breath he took, starting with the sun 
and ending with the trees of the forest. Oh, he had 
a god for each of the four winds and a god for rain 
and a god for snow and a god for fine weather and 
a god for storms, a god for health and a god for 
sickness. He had stone gods and wooden gods 
and gods of gold and silver. As for the fairies: he 
brought them in too along with elves, nymphs, 
satyrs, and other twilight folk. Nor did he forget 
the stars, the moon and the running water of the 



Rus and Bennen 


139 


land; all of them gods, he held, each possessed of 
divine powers, each to be worshipped, each to be 
offered sacrifice. 

To it all, Saint Patrick listened with an outward 
show of courtesy and patience. What he felt inside 
is a horse of another color and not to be dealt with 
here. 

However, what Saint Patrick said when Rus was 
finished was, “There is a great deal to what you 
say, Rus, but I’m still a little bit doubtful.” 

“Ah, sure, you won’t be doubtful when you get 
to thinking it over, so you won’t,” Rus replied, 
glorying in his own conceit. 

“Maybe not. Maybe not.” 

. Flattery as a means to an end was an old friend 
of Saint Patrick’s. 

“And now, Rus,” he said, clearing his throat 
for the task ahead, “I’ll be telling you of the Chris¬ 
tian God.” 

“Musha, why did I ever make the foolish bar¬ 
gain,” Rus grumbled, sitting himself down on a 
round stone on the ground. 

Now, it was midday by the sun brightly shining 
when Saint Patrick commenced and it was the way 
he started with the beginning of the world and the 
six wonderful days of creation. 

In a minute, Rus was all ears in spite of him¬ 
self. 

This may have been because Saint Patrick had 
the “know how” of setting forth facts or it may 



140 My Saint Patrick 

have been that Rus found some common sense to 
the narrative so different to his own. 

Whichever, Saint Patrick continued untiringly 
and it was nigh to the evening hour, with the air 
around him softening and greying, when he came 
to the birth of Jesus in a stable at Bethlehem. 

By that time, Rus had been in his hard sitting on 
the stone for a solid five hours, yet he showed no 
sign of impatience; faith, if anything, he seemed 
eager to hear more. 

By-and-by, as the bowl-eyed owls began screech¬ 
ing in the oak trees, Saint Patrick told Rus how 
Jesus was murdered by misled men who crucified 
Him. 

At that point, tears gushed down Rus’ aged face, 
like riverlets down a mountainside. 

But Saint Patrick went on to tell the reason why 
Christ was crucified. 

That was enough for Rus. Filled with remorse 
for his sins which he felt to be as nails piercing 
Jesus, he sprang to his feet. 

“Bishop Patrick! Bishop Patrick!” he sobbed. 

“Yes, Rus?” 

Filled with compassion born of love, Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s voice was. 

“Och,” repented Rus, “over yonder back of the 
small hillocky hill where the full bellied moon does 
now be rising, I’ll build my house to Jesus.” 

A lump in his throat, left Saint Patrick without 
words. 



Rus and Bennen 


141 


To say that Dichu was surprised to learn of 
Saint Patrick’s success with his brother is to put 
it mildly, very mildly. 

At first he could not get it into his head that 
Rus was a Christian. But when he did, he said, 
“If I doubted it before, Bishop Patrick, I have no 
doubt now but that you will have all Ireland 
Christian in a six months.” 

Saint Patrick thought that it would take a little 
longer than that. Yet he, too, took Rus’ conversion 
as a good omen for the future. 

But it would not be just to infer that Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s hopeful and happy frame of mind was solely 
due Rus’ conversion. 

On his way back from Brechtan, he had stopped 
off to visit a friend of his slave days, Bronach, 
daughter of Miliucc maccu-Buain. Bronach, as 
Dichu had told him, was married. And she had a 
son whose name was Mochaoi. Because, with his 
mother, Mochaoi professed himself willing to be 
baptised in the new faith, Saint Patrick gave him 
a Gospel and a credence table and promised him 
a crozier like in his own in time to come. 

Let it be taken for granted then that the ad¬ 
ditional conversions of Bronach and Mochaoi who 
later became a Bishop and a Saint, helped to in¬ 
spire Saint Patrick with confidence in himself; so 
much so that after a short visit with Dichu and a 
few days spent in overhauling his boat, he set out 
in search of fresh fields to conquer. 



142 My Saint Patrick 

The journey southward, hugging the coast was 
uneventful. 

Since he had Tara in mind as his destination, 
Saint Patrick dropped anchor when he reached 
the mouth of the Boyne where he had put Lomman 
ashore in the time gone. 

There he debated sailing inland along the Boyne 
or going inland on foot. He decided upon the 
latter. Going on foot, he told himself, he would 
have an opportunity to meet people and work 
among them. 

At the time, there lived close by the river mouth, 
a franklin or small landowner named Seschen and 
it was to Seschen that Saint Patrick went to ask 
could he leave his boat with him a while. 

Seschen, praise the Lord, proved to be a kindly 
man; not alone did he seem willing to care for the 
boat but he also invited Saint Patrick and his dis¬ 
ciples to eat a meal in his house. Hungry from the 
voyage, Saint Patrick gladly accepted and in no 
time at all he was seated at Seschen’s table eating 
good food and washing it down with new milk. 

The meal was not long on when a little boy 
came into the room, the way little boys will when 
strangers are about, to listen to their talk. None 
other than Seschen’s son was he. Bennen was the 
name on him. 

To picture Bennen and do him justice is the 
hard task. He was fair to look upon. The blush 
of flamingo plumage lit his cheeks. Sister sloes 



Rus and Bennen 


143 


ripened by an August sun, his eyes were. His small 
but compact and well-muscled body betrayed a 
strength far in advance of his years. Each hair 
of his head was a thread of golden cornsilk that 
fell, softly curling to his broad shoulders. His 
stance? It was manly and proud, almost regal. 
And his smile? Sweet enough to charm a cockle 
open. As a matter of fact, Bennen was so beauti¬ 
ful that his father had him wear a charm about 
his neck for fear the fairies would steal him. 

Now although all in the room gazed admiringly 
on him, Bennen had eyes for none save Saint Pat¬ 
rick and what he did was, he went and sat himself 
down at Saint Patrick’s feet; happy to sit and 
listen to the holy words falling from his lips. 

When the meal was over, Saint Patrick patted 
Bennen on the head and spoke a few words with 
him. Then, at Seschen’s suggestion, he retired 
to rest a while. 

Waking, after a short refreshing sleep, he found 
to his great surprise that he was blanketed with 
wild flowers from the woods. 

Who else but Bennen could have done it? 

Saint Patrick could not help but feel a grah 
stealing over him for the lad; indeed, he found 
himself wishing that he might have Bennen with 
him always. 

But that, he pondered, was like wishing for the 
moon and, after all, he had more sensible things 
to do and more important. 



144 


My Saint Patrick 


What those important things were may be gath¬ 
ered from this:— 

At the end of three hours, Saint Patrick had 
converted Seschen and was arranging for two of 
his disciples to establish a church on the land given 
for that purpose by Seschen. 

After that, being wishful to be off again on his 
journey, Saint Patrick made his farewells, thanked 
his host for his kindness in lending him a chariot 
along with everything else, blessed the household 
and prepared to leave. 

Just as he was stepping into the chariot, how¬ 
ever, he felt a tug at his robes. It was Bennen and 
he begging him not to go. Bending down, Saint 
Patrick gathered Bennen into his arms. 

“I have to go, alanna ,” he whispered softly. 
“But I’ll come back and see you some day soon.” 

But Bennen kept right on crying and pleading 
and coaxing thinking to have him remain. 

Seschen, at length, intervened. 

“Let you not be tormenting the heart out of 
Bishop Patrick,” he scolded. “What will he think 
of you at all at all?” 

“Faith, if I had my way, I’d take him away 
from you,” Saint Patrick laughed. 

“You don’t tell me so?” 

Seschen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 

“You know, Bishop Patrick,” he said, “his 
mother and I were talking only the other night 
of sending him to be fostered by his uncle.” 



Rus and Bennen 


145 


“Yes?” 

Saint Patrick held his breath. He thought he 
knew what Seschen was going to say next but 
dared not anticipate it. 

“Well,” Seschen began slowly, “the lad seems 
to have taken such a liking on you, I was think¬ 
ing ... I was wondering . . . that is to say . . .” 

In face of such timidity, such hesitancy, Saint 
Patrick could not restrain himself. 

“You were wondering would I foster him, is it?” 

“I was. That was what I was wondering.” 

Meanwhile Bennen had dried his eyes and was 
following the conversation intently as a grown-up. 
As soon as he heard his father admit to thinking 
of Saint Patrick as a foster father for him, he 
threw his arms ’round Saint Patrick’s neck, cry¬ 
ing, “Be my foster father. Please, be my foster 
father, Bishop Patrick.” 

What Saint Patrick answered him was: “From 
now on, I am your foster father. You’re coming 
to Tara with me.” 




CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
The Birthday of the Year 


On the twenty-fifth day of March, it was customary 
for pagan Ireland to celebrate the Birthday of the 
Year, a festival which officially marked the arrival 
of Spring. 

In the year four hundred and thirty-two, the 
ceremonies proper to the Birthday of the Year 
were performed at Tara by the brother archdruids, 
Lochru and Lucetmael, in the presence of Logaire 
son of Niall of the Nine Hostages, the reigning 
High-King and a mighty gathering of provincial 
kings, chieftians, nobles and commoners. 

The ceremonies were truly pagan and included 
the sacrificing of animals and the striking of new 
fire. This latter, indeed, was the main event of 
the day. By Lochru and LucetmaePs command 
all fire in Ireland was extinguished at a certain 

146 


















The Birthday of the Year 147 


hour; no flame to flicker nor blaze again till they 
struck new fire for the year from two pieces of 
wood gathered in the sacred oak grove on the sum¬ 
mit of Tara Hill. 

So far as was known, nobody had ever dared 
violate this strange rite. 

Yet, on that day, one hour after the command 
had been given, a sheet of flame lit the hill of Slane 
beyond the river to the north. 

At once, all at Tara was confusion. 

Who had dared throw defiance in the teeth of 
the archdruids? The question was on the lips 
of all. 

Flushed with rage, Lochru and Lucetmael made 
their way to Logaire’s side. 

“O, king, live forever! This fire which has been 
lighted in defiance of our wish shall live forever 
unless it be this very night extinguished/’ they 
stormed. 

“No, it shall not live forever! I, Logaire say 
it shall not live forever! Come, let us go bring¬ 
ing swift death to him who has dared the im¬ 
piety!” 

But Lochru and Lucetmael must first invoke 
their gods and it was given to them to take nine 
chariots and proceed towards the blaze, turning 
left-handwise as they saw fit. 

In a minute the nine chariots were yoked and 
the hooves of eighteen frothing horses beat out a 
desperately sharp tattoo across the matchless plain 



148 My Saint Patrick 

of Bergia above which, in grandeur, rises the hill 
called Slane. 

Leaving Seschen’s abode, Saint Patrick in com¬ 
pany with Bennen and his disciples followed the 
north bank of the river Boyne inland, preaching 
and converting as they went and gathering about 
them a loyal band of followers. 

By-and-by they came to a hill and Saint Patrick 
proposed a halt. 

“Let us rest here a while/’ he said. “Tomorrow 
is Easter Sunday and I am anxious to instruct my 
followers before I baptise them.” 

Now, among Saint Patrick’s followers was one 
Cianan whom he had decided to ordain a priest. 

Drawing Cianan aside, Saint Patrick said to 
him, “Cianan, at Mass tomorrow, I must light the 
Paschal Fire; so let you go now to the top of the 
hill here and gather some cipeens and a few faggots 
that everything may be in readiness.” 

“I’ll do that,” said Cianan. 

However, he had gone only a few steps when he 
turned back. 

“It just came to me, Bishop Patrick, that light¬ 
ing the Paschal Fire on the morrow will be the 
dangerous thing,” he explained. “If it’s Easter, 
it’s also the Birthday of the Year and no fire must 
be lit till the druids strike new fire from the sacred 
oak grove at Tara.” 



The Birthday of the Year 149 


“Och, I hadn’t thought of that at all!” 

Saint Patrick stroked his beard pensively. 

u Maybe you could be making a weeshy, weeny 
fire the way it wouldn’t be seen,” Cianan suggested. 

Saint Patrick did not reply at once. He was 
thinking, it might not be a bad idea to defy the 
archdruids. He desired an audience with the High- 
King and such a bold step would certainly win him 
one, if only as a prisoner. 

“Let you not fret yourself about the Birthday 
of the Year, Cianan,” he answered at last, “but 
gather twice as much wood as I told you; enough 
for a blaze to be seen twelve miles distant at Tara.” 

Driving hell for leather, Lochru and Lucetmael 
kept abreast of Logaire, advising him. 

Said Lucetmael: 

“O, king, when we reach our destination, do 
not penetrate past the glow cast by the fire, for 
fear he who lit it will think you come to do him 
homage, but remain on the fringe of the glow and 
let one of the nobles of our company summon him 
to you that he may come and do you homage and 
submit himself to you.” 

“Wisely do you counsel. I shall bide by what 
you say,” Logaire made answer. 

At length, they came to the hill of Slane. As 
Lucetmael advised, a noble was sent to fetch Saint 
Patrick. 



150 


My Saint Patrick 


A wee bit fearful, the noble went forward, chat¬ 
tering to himself in this wise:— 

“I wanted adventure, so I did. That’s why I 
came. But, why now, do my knees tremble and 
my hands relate themselves to the aspen leaf? Is 
it cowardly, I am? For what would I be cowardly 
and I going to meet a man who may be no more 
than half-witted peasant? Come now, stop shiver¬ 
ing knees and hands! Back with you, fine brace 
of shoulders! Forward!” 

Presently, he found himself among the circle 
around the fierce, blazing fire. 

Let it be to his credit, he did not have to ask 
who was leader there. He could see by Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s dignified bearing that he was whom he sought. 

“The High-King orders you to him without 
delay.” 

The noble scowled, trying to make himself seem 
important. 

“Yes?” 

Saint Patrick’s voice was calm, unruffled, serene. 

“Without delay!” 

Impatiently, the noble repeated himself. 

“So be it.” 

Calling to Cianan and little Bennen, Saint Pat¬ 
rick went forth, chanting on the way, “Some put 
their trust in chariots and some in horses but we 
shall walk in the name of Almighty God.” 

Meanwhile, Lochru and Lucetmael had been 



The Birthday of the Year 151 


busy instructing Logaire and the nobles how to 
act when the stranger came. 

Let no one of you rise to your feet nor show 
him any mark of respect,” they counselled. 

In spite of these instructions, when Saint Pat¬ 
rick entered the circle formed by the royal chariots, 

Ere mac Dega, a far famed lawyer, rose to his 

feet. 

This angered both Logaire and the archdruids 
but they deferred a reprimand; Saint Patrick 
claimed all their attention. 

“Bring him in closer,” Lochru commanded the 
messenger noble. 

Advancing with Bennen and Cianan to where 
Logaire and the archdruids stood beside a bladed 
chariot hub, Saint Patrick preserved his calm de¬ 
meanor. 

The scene was now an impressive one. The 
flames of the fire on the hilltop set lights and 
shadows dancing and swirling in turn over the faces 
of all. The sweating horses, marked here and there 
with white bubbling foam, had the appearance 
of freshly oiled bronzes. The chariot fittings glim¬ 
mered as does candle flame when seen through 
lowered eyelids, while the mournful note of the 
nocturnal curlew in a nearby marsh filtered through 
the dark night air, adding a note of almost funeral 
solemnity to the proceedings. 

Lochru spoke first. 



152 


My Saint Patrick 


“Man, why—why—why—have you defied us?” 

Anger marked his words with a stutter. 

Before Saint Patrick could reply, Lucetmael 
intervened. 

“This is Adzehead whose coming we foretold in 
the time gone,” he proclaimed. 

“O king, what my brother says is true,” Lochru 
added, turning to Logaire. “You must have him 
speedily condemned to death both for your own 
good and Ireland’s.” 

Impressed by the archdruids’ vehemence, Lo¬ 
gaire eyed Saint Patrick sternly. 

“What have you to say to that, impious wretch 
who dares defy Ireland’s king?” he demanded 
roughly. 

“I but wished to gain your ear, O king.” 

Saint Patrick made his answer in the soft tones 
of friendship. 

“To gain my ear? Ho, hoho, hohohohohooooo! ” 

Logaire laughed in spite of himself. Being 
Irish, he was unable to resist the humor of the 
situation and the cleverness of it too. 

Lochru and Lucetmael, however, offset his laugh¬ 
ter with scowls. 

“And for what did you wish to gain the High- 
King’s ear?” they thundered meaningly. “To fill 
it with words of an olive skinned god, is it?” 

Ignoring the archdruids, Saint Patrick addressed 
himself to Logaire. 

“O king,” he pleaded, “I have come to ask per- 



The Birthday of the Year 153 


mission to work in your fairest of lands; for it is 
the known thing, with Logaire’s permission none 
will dare gainsay me.” 

“Talk on, Stranger.” 

Evidently, Saint Patrick had made an impres¬ 
sion. 

“Would you have me talk of my work?” he 
asked. 

“Of your work,” Logaire replied. 

So Saint Patrick bespoke his idea of Christian¬ 
izing Ireland. 

“O king, I am sure if you will hear me out, you 
too will believe,” he said. 

But in this he was not allowed a clear field. 
There were many interruptions from Lochru and 
Lucetmael, particularly from the former; indeed, 
it became more and more evident as time went by 
and Saint Patrick continued to hold forth that 
Lochru was working himself up into a frightful 
rage; he chewed his lips, his eyes blazed and his 
fingers twitched nervously. 

Even as dark clouds presage rain, so did these 
signs in Lochru presage an outpouring of venom. 
The outpouring came at last when Saint Patrick 
mentioned the mystery of the Blessed Trinity. 
Spitting hard on the ground, Lochru shrieked de¬ 
monically, “That is what I think of your Blessed 
Trinity!” 

If it was, it was his last thought. Suddenly, 
something tore at his heart with fingers of iron. 



154 


My Saint Patrick 


He felt himself as if lifted high into the air; then, 
dashed against the ground. 

Those present, however, saw only this:— 

They saw him clutch at his heart with pain- 
frozen fingers, moan in anguish and topple slowly 
to the ground, dead. 

In the commotion which followed, and during 
which Lucetmael, in an agony of grief threw him¬ 
self on his brother’s body, breathing into his mouth, 
trying to restore him to life, Saint Patrick was 
forgotten. Yet, he did not leave the scene. 

After a while, seeing him standing aloof with 
Bennen and Cianan, Ere mac Dega approached 
him. 

“You ought to be making a fast getaway while 
you have the chance,” he advised kindly. 

“But I wish to see the High-King before I go,” 
Saint Patrick protested. 

“By the by-laws, but you’re a brave man!” ex¬ 
claimed Ere mac Dega, lapsing into the idiom of 
his legal profession. 

Just then, as chance would have it, Logaire 
caught sight of the group. Leaving Lochru’s side, 
he crossed the intervening space. 

A born strategist, Saint Patrick forestalled him 
in speech. 

“May I come to Tara and finish what I was 
telling you of the Christian faith tomorrow?” he in¬ 
quired. 

Logaire looked startled. In his breast, because 



The Birthday of the Year 155 


of what happened to Lochru, a fear of Saint Pat¬ 
rick grew. To deny him his request might result 
in death for himself, he reasoned superstitiously. 
So, gruffly, trying to preserve some appearance of 
royal dignity, he gave his assent. 

“Bless you and thank you.” 

With that, Saint Patrick, Bennen’s hand in his, 
Cianan by his side, turned away and headed back 
for the hilltop where the flames of the Paschal 
Fire still fluttered bravely. 



CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
A Contest of Miracles 


Saint Patrick’s journey from the hill of Slane to 
the royal palace at Tara should have been unevent¬ 
ful but it was not; death lurked in ambush. The 
reason for this was: Lucetmael, seeking revenge 
for his brother’s death, extracted from Logaire a 
promise that Saint Patrick would not reach Tara 
alive. 

To that end, Logaire ordered his soldiers to lie 
in ambush at strategic points along the way and 
on no account to allow Saint Patrick to escape 
alive. 

However, Logaire reckoned without God. 

Walking along in the blue light of the spring 
morning, Saint Patrick was divinely inspired to 
have his disciples recite aloud a hymn which he 
himself had composed. Since that time, the hymn 
has had the name, Faed Faida or “Deer’s Cry,” 
put on it because while reciting it, Saint Patrick 
and his disciples appeared to Logaire’s soldiers 
as eight deer and a wee fawn bearing a bundle on 
its back; the wee fawn being none other than 

156 




And a wee fawn bearing a bundle on his back. 











- 

































































































A Contest of Miracles 


159 


Bennen and' he carrying Saint Patrick’s gospel. 

The first verse of the Faed Fiada goes like 
this:— 


I bind myself today with a strong virtue, an 
invocation of the Trinity; 

I believe in a Threeness with confession of an 
Oneness in the Creator of the Universe; 

I bind to myself today the virtue of Christ’s 
Birth with His Baptism; 

the virtue of His Crucifixion with His Burial; 

the virtue of His Resurrection with His As¬ 
cension ; 

the virtue of His coming to the Judgment of 
Doom; 

the virtue of ranks of Cherubim; 
obedience of Angels; 
the service of archangels; 
hope of Resurrection. 

Thus outwitting the soldiers, Saint Patrick ar¬ 
rived unharmed at Tara. 

There, his ear told him that the place to look 
for Logaire was in the Hall of Mead, for sounds 
of merriment mingled with the rattle of dishes and 
the clinking of goblets issued from the banqueting 
hall. 

So quietly did Saint Patrick effect an entrance 
that there were many among those present who 
afterwards gave out that he came through the 
walls. 

Seeing him, Logaire paled. Yet, he was not taken 
completely off guard. Lochru’s strange death still 



160 


My Saint Patrick 


lingered in his mind, coupled with the belief that 
Saint Patrick had brought it about, so that as a 
precautionary measure he had warned his guests 
that if Saint Patrick by some magical means es¬ 
caped the trap set for him, they were to treat him 
coldly and not honor nor fear him at all. 

But, even as on the previous night when Ere mac 
Dega disobeyed the royal command and rose in 
his standing before Saint Patrick, so also on this 
occasion there was one; nay, there were two who 
rose out of their sitting and they were Dubtach 
maccu-Lugir, the poet laureate, and Fiacc who 
was a poet also, but not in the same class with 
Dubtach maccu-Lugir who was first and by him¬ 
self in his class, so fine a poet he was. 

With great dignity, Saint Patrick walked the 
length of the room, his disciples and Bennen fol¬ 
lowing in his wake; Bennen’s mouth watering at 
all the fine things to eat he saw on the tables. 

“Welcome to Tara!” Logaire cried, hiding his 
chagrin and anger. 

“If I were as sure of as cordial a welcome all 
over Ireland, there would be no need for my being 
here, O king,” Saint Patrick replied, disdaining 
to mention the incident of the ambush. 

“That you will never have,” shouted Lucetmael, 
seated on Logaire’s left. 

From her seat on Logaire’s right, the queen 
frowned at Lucetmael, restraining him. Being a 
native of Britain like Saint Patrick, she was anx¬ 
ious to hear what he had to say for himself. 



A Contest of Miracles 


161 


“The king has told me of the new faith you 
preach, will you not tell us something of it?” she 
asked, smiling graciously. 

Saint Patrick bowed. 

“With all my heart,” he replied. 

Much as he would have liked to, Logaire knew 
that he could not refuse the queen her request and 
maintain his dignity in the presence of so many. 

So, Saint Patrick began to speak and he spoke 
in a loud voice which penetrated to the four corners 
of the hall, it being his wish that all might hear 
the word of God he preached. 

But Lucetmael, unmindful of his brother’s fate, 
insisted on interrupting with questions. 

Fortunately, Saint Patrick had an answer for 
him each time. Instead of crushing Lucetmael, 
however, Saint Patrick’s answers riled him so that 
finally he roared out a challenge, staking every¬ 
thing on his own magical powers: 

“Let us have a contest of miracles!” he chal¬ 
lenged. 

“Ah!” 

Logaire seemed pleased with the idea. Here, 
thought he, was a way to show up Saint Patrick 
and be rid of him at the same time. He felt quite 
sure that Lucetmael would fare best. 

“A contest by all means!” he cried. “A contest 
of miracles on the plain!” 

Saint Patrick turned to Lucetmael. 

“Miracles? What miracles?” he asked. 

Lucetmael hesitated. It seemed from the evil 



162 


My Saint Patrick 


glint in his eye that he was holding secret converse 
with the Dark Forces. At length, “You shall see. 
You shall see what miracles/’ he chortled. “Come 
one and all; outside to the plain!” 

The gathering needed no second bidding. A con¬ 
test of miracles was not an everyday affair; it was 
a miracle in itself. 

Saint Patrick realised that if he refused, he was 
lost. Putting his trust in God, he followed Lucet- 
mael, praying the while. 

“Now,” said Lucetmael, selecting a spot for the 
contest, “now, for the first test. It is spring, as 
you can see. Winter has gone from us. Can you 
bring snow?” 

“Why bring snow in the spring? That would 
be against the laws of Nature, against the laws of 
God,” Saint Patrick retorted. 

Sneering, Lucetmael boasted, “I can bring it; 
laws or no laws.” 

Sure enough, he went at once to work, uttering 
some weird, magical formula. Before long, snow 
fell and it continued to fall until it was the depth 
of a tall man’s waist. 

The gathering marvelled greatly and jeered not 
a little at what it imagined to be Saint Patrick’s 
discomfiture. 

But when the snow ceased to fall, Saint Patrick 
turned to Lucetmael, saying, “Now, that you have 
brought it as you said you would, can you get rid 
of it?” 




A Contest of Miracles 


163 


Lucetmael was obviously embarrassed. He fid¬ 
geted with his sleeves and his face slowly reddened. 

“I can’t get rid of it at once/’ he muttered, “but 
by this time tomorrow . . 

“Just as I thought,” Saint Patrick permitted 
himself a pitying smile, “you can work evil on 
short notice but you cannot do good.” 

“You can do neither,” Lucetmael blustered de¬ 
fensively. 

Saint Patrick did not answer him. Raising his 
arm, he made the Sign of the Cross over the plain. 
As if it rested on hedges in a summer sun, the 
snow melted. 

As far as the gathering was concerned that was 
answer enough for Lucetmael. Their hearts 
warmed towards Saint Patrick. 

If they thought Lucetmael beaten though, they 
misjudged him. 

“I have not finished,” he protested. “I have 
greater miracles at my command.” 

What he said was true enough; he had greater 
miracles, by the mere invoking of a name, he 
covered the plain with darkness. 

As before, Saint Patrick wanted to know if he 
could undo what he had done. 

“It will go away in its own time,” Lucetmael 
answered. 

This, did not satisfy Saint Patrick. Reprimand¬ 
ing Lucetmael for his inability to do ought but 
evil, he again made the Sign of the Cross o’er the 



164 


My Saint Patrick 


plain and with the word, Amen, light was restored. 

Logaire now, as well as Lucetmael seemed ill at 
ease. In an effort to save the day for paganism, 
Logaire intervened. 

“Let you both throw your books in water,” he 
proposed, “and he, whose books come out un¬ 
harmed, let him be declared the winner.” 

Lucetmael, however, would not agree to this. 
Saint Patrick, he pointed out, used water in the 
ceremony of Baptism; doubtless it was a particu¬ 
lar god of his. 

Logaire then suggested throwing the books into 
fire. 

Still, Lucetmael would not agree. He held up 
the incident of Saint Patrick’s Paschal Fire. The 
Fire God, he would have it, was also friendly to 
Saint Patrick. 

“Nonsense,” said Saint Patrick. “I worship 
neither fire nor water but Him who created them.” 

The gathering was fast becoming impatient. 
Several of its members showered ridicule on Lucet¬ 
mael for a coward. Lucetmael, quite naturally, 
did not like this, yet he did not seem to be able 
to do anything further. 

Saint Patrick, however, not wishing to see the 
contest at an end without any more profitable 
result than that of proving the archdruid a coward, 
put forward a test of his own. 

“You, Lucetmael,” he said, “you go and one 
of my disciples will go along with you into a house 



A Contest of Miracles 


165 


divided in two, you wearing my mantle, my disciple 
wearing yours; the house to be set on fire with 
both of you inside.” 

“What then?” Logaire asked the question. 

Saint Patrick resumed, “Should Lucetmael come 
out alive, O king, I will return to Britain. Should 
my disciple come out alive, will you grant me the 
permission I seek to preach in Ireland?” 

Logaire looked at Lucetmael. 

Lucetmael nodded his head, accepting the con¬ 
ditions. 

“Very well. Your conditions are agreeable,” 
Logaire said. 

To conduct this contest, however, it was neces¬ 
sary that a house be built. 

In the interim, Bennen, all of a dither with ex¬ 
citement, came running to Saint Patrick. 

“Let me be the one to go into the burning house, 
Bishop Patrick,” he pleaded. 

Saint Patrick laughed out loud. 

“Sure, you’re only a little bit of a fellow,” he 
said. “What would you do if your hair got singed?” 

“I’d grow some more, Bishop Patrick. My hair 
grows as quick as grass in June. Aw, do let me 
be the one, will you? Please?” 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t be afraid?” 

Saint Patrick seemed to consider the matter. 

“With Christ on our side! I’d fight a whole 
army of druids with Christ on our side, Bishop 
Patrick.” Bennen replied. 



166 


My Saint Patrick 


“Aye, and with faith like your’s, Bennen, we 
can’t loose. I’ll let you do it.” 

With a whoop of joy, Bennen flung himself into 
Saint Patrick’s arms, showering him with kisses, 
the way you would think he had not seen him for 
a six months. 

Afterwards, Bennen ran to tell the good news to 
two little princes, he had made friends with during 
the contest. His little friends were frightened for 
him but marvelled greatly at his bravery and se¬ 
cretly envied him. They were called indoors almost 
at once by their mother who was visiting the queen 
and wished to show them off as mother’s will, even 
mothers of princes, so that they did not get time 
to tell Bennen all they thought of him, but they 
did promise to be on hand, cheering for him when 
the event took place. 

Some time later, Saint Patrick and he walking 
about, saying his prayers, came across the two 
little princes crying their eyes out in a dark corner. 

“Why do you cry?” he asked them. 

“We’ve been looking for Bennen and we can’t 
find him,” they wailed. 

“And what do you want with Bennen?” Saint 
Patrick inquired, not quite understanding their 
grief. 

“Och> ochy ochone!” wailed the little princes. 
“We overheard that Lucetmael is planning to 
build the house half of green wood for himself 
and half of tinder wood for Bennen.” 



A Contest of Miracles 


167 


This was news indeed. 

Yet, it did not seem to disturb Saint Patrick. 

“Now, isn’t that Lucetmael the treacherous 
man,” he said, almost conversationally, mildly 
wondering that anybody could be so wicked. 

But the princes continued to wail. 

To console them, Saint Patrick placed a hand 
on each of their royal heads. 

“Dry your eyes the two of you,” he told them, 
“for if Bennen’s half of the house were to be built 
by birds of whithered oak leaves, he would still 
come out unharmed.” 

Wiping away their tears, although they were 
still a little bit doubtful, the princes thanked Saint 
Patrick and leaving him, went to get their mother 
who was to take them to the contest which now 
was soon to begin. 

Well, such excitement, Tara never witnessed in 
all its days! 

Even the slaves left their posts and wended their 
way to the event. A battle would have caused less 
comment; a hunt still less; as for a game of hurley, 
had their been a game scheduled that day, it would 
have had to be postponed for want of players. No 
matter where you looked, you saw people hurry¬ 
ing to the scene, each and every one of them sure 
at heart that they were about to witness the tri¬ 
umph of Lucetmael and the death of a Christian. 

When little Bennen stepped forth to enter the 
house, a mighty roar of disapproval split the air 



168 My Saint Patrick 

and coarse names were shouted at Saint Patrick 
for permitting one so young to take the risk. But 
Saint Patrick held his peace and helped Bennen 
adjust Lucetmael’s mantle about his shoulders. 

Then, into the fated house went Lucetmael, 
choosing treacherously, the green half and smiling 
confidently. 

Bennen smiled too and in his eyes burned a light 
of Faith, as bravely he crossed the threshold into 
the tinder wood half. 

At once the doors were barred and against the 
front of the house, dry brushwood was piled high. 
Fire was struck. At first the flames travelled low 
and slow; then, with increased speed, as if feeling 
free to wander at will without being quenched. 
Lord, what a crackling noise they made! Soon, 
what with smoke and flame combined, the house 
was hidden from sight. A hush fell over the spec¬ 
tators. Fearful and tense, they awaited the out¬ 
come. Now the roof was falling in, now the sides 
collapsing, sending up showers of sparks which, 
for a moment twinkled wickedly before falling 
back, black, spent and minute. At last, the charred 
ruins became visible. Excited, the spectators 
surged forward, Logaire at their head and he anx¬ 
ious to be first to congratulate Lucetmael. 

Suddenly, a tiny voice came from amid the ruins, 
“I’m all right, Bishop Patrick. I’m all right.” 

The spectators stood still in their tracks scarce 



_ A Contest of Miracles 169 

believing their ears. Without a doubt, it was 
Bennen. 

Saint Patrick pushed his way through the crowd. 
He entered the ruins, his heart beating fast. There, 
still smiling, stood Bennen and he unharmed save 
for LucetmaePs mantle, the ashes of which clung 
to his shoulders. 

But by now, Logaire had also entered the ruins 
in search of Lucetmael. Finding nought of him but 
Saint Patrick’s mantle which was not even scorched, 
he drew his sword in anger and rushed at Saint 
Patrick. 

Luckily, the queen was near at hand. Throwing 
herself in Logaire’s way, she cried out, “If you kill 
him there is no knowing what manner of ill may 
befall you!” 

Caught in time, Logaire saw wisdom in her 
words. Putting up his sword, he turned away; 
grief for Lucetmael gnawing at his heart. 




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
The Idol 


Although, he now had Logaire’s permission to 
preach in Ireland, Saint Patrick’s troubles were 
not at an end; as a matter of fact they were only 
beginning, for there were districts in the land where 
the High-King’s word meant very little. 

However, the day following the defeat of Lucet- 
mael, Saint Patrick set out for Tailte where Coipre, 
brother of Logaire, was presiding over the yearly 
national sports festival, the Tailteann games. 

Approaching his destination, he bade several of 
his disciples go on ahead to announce his coming 
and to ask could he address the gathering at some 
convenient hour during the day. 

Inquiring Coipre’s whereabouts from a group 

170 






The Idol 


171 


of nobles close by the arena, Saint Patrick’s dis¬ 
ciples were insolently asked what they wished to 
see him for. Innocently, they made known their 
mission. Withdrawing a few paces, the nobles held 
counsel and it is what they did, instead of telling 
the disciples where they might find Coipre, they 
themselves went to him, saying, “A botheration 
on this man who seeks to address us and we at 
sport.” 

Angered by the proposed intrusion, Coipre sent 
for the disciples and by bribery sought to corrupt 
them, thinking to murder Saint Patrick if they 
would deliver him into his hands. 

But the disciples would not accept the proffered 
bribe; faithful to a man, they were. Alas, they 
had to pay and pay dearly for their loyalty. 

Coipre was so incensed that he caused them to 
be herded into the River Blackwater close at hand 
and scourged till they bled; their blood slowly 
mingling with and coloring red the cold flowing 
waters. 

What did Saint Patrick do when he heard of 
this? 

Oh, ’tis easy, pleasant telling! 

The veins of his neck swelled out in anger, a 
fiery flush lit his cheek, his eyes blazed the way 
you would be thinking a torturer had kindled twin 
bonfires on his face, every hair of his well kept 
beard bristled threateningly and in a thunderous 
voice he called Coipre by the terrible name “God’s 



172 


My Saint Patrick 


enemy!” and prophesied, “Because of what he has 
done this day no king shall ever spring from 
Coipre’s seed.” 

A sad prophecy for one of royal blood, surely! 

Even so, it was fulfilled. 

Afterwards, however, when his anger cooled, 
Saint Patrick realised that he had erred in trying 
to win the nobles from their games. There was a 
time and place for everything, he told himself. He 
should have waited till the games were over and 
the nobles surfeited with sport. 

“But,” said he, cheering up, “there’s no use 
crying when the fox has eaten the hen. I’ll profit 
by my mistake, that is what I will do, profit by it.” 

Turning his back, then on Tailte, he set his face 
towards the hill of Uisneach where lived two other 
brothers of Logaire, Fiacha and Enda, along with 
their nephew, a son of their brother Fiacc. 

On the way, a lone magpie flew overhead. 

It was a bad omen, for a magpie ’tis said: 

One for Sorrow , 

Two for Joy , 

Three for a Wedding , 

And four for a Boy. 

Whether the magpie really had anything to do 
with it or not would be hard saying but this much is 
true: at the hill of Uisneach Saint Patrick fared 
no better but he fared worse than at Tailte. Enda 
came angrily against him and two of his disciples 



The Idol 


173 


were laid low in instant death by the nephew; 

may God in the goodness of His heart forgive the 
lad his crime! 

Still, Saint Patrick did not give way to despair. 
Evidently, it was his lot to suffer. Besides there 
was a liking on him for the martyr’s crown rather 
than fail in his mission. 

No doubt, it was because he did not despair but 
continued to have faith that Enda, sometime later, 
gave way before him and became a Christian and 
dedicated his son, Cormac, to him along with Cor- 
mac’s land which was every ninth ridge to the 
north and every ninth ridge to the south, that is 
to say every ninth ridge in Ireland. 

But that did not happen on Saint Patrick’s first 
visit to the hill of Uisneach. 

After that sad and sorry first visit, Saint Patrick 
wended his way along the moss-green banks of the 
River Blackwater to a place which in the time 
since has come to be known as Domnach Padraic , 
meaning “the Church of Patrick.” 

At Domnach, Padraic Connal, yet another one 
of Logaire’s brothers, had his dun. Of all Logaire’s 
kin, Connal was the only one to give Saint Pat¬ 
rick a kindly welcome. He gave his hand to him 
like a true friend and donated a piece of land for 
a church which when it was footed, was found to 
measure as many as twenty paces—a goodly piece 
of ground. But sure, Connal had the big heart. 

When the church was built, Saint Patrick went 




174 


My Saint Patrick 


all through ConnaPs territory, winning converts, 
gathering disciples and planting settlements, 
scarcely stopping to rest, never faltering a minute 
in his ambition to set Jesus on the highest throne 
of all in Ireland; the throne of the people’s heart. 

His work, at last, being completed in ConnaPs 
territory, Saint Patrick, leaving several disciples 
to care for the newly baptised Christians, set out 
again and this time it was westward and to the 
north, he made his way, buying safe passage 
through the territories of hostile chieftians, pay¬ 
ing them as much as the price of fifteen men which, 
when reckoned either in livestock or gold, was a 
stiff enough sum. 

In his travelling, Saint Patrick came to the 
neighbor provinces, South Teffia and North Teffia. 
There, whom did he meet but cruel Coipre’s sons. 
Fortunately, they were not of a oneness with their 
father. They behaved in generous fashion and he 
who lived in South Teffia, gave land for a church 
at Ardagh where Saint Patrick left his disciples, 
Mel and Melucc and he who lived in North Teffia, 
gave land for a church at Cell Raithin and it was 
at that place Saint Patrick rewarded the love of 
his tried and true friend, Gussacht, son of Miliucc 
maccu-Buain, by consecrating him bishop of the 
see which down through the years has grown in 
prosperity and is now on the map as Granard. 

Leaving North Teffia, Saint Patrick crossed a 
lake to Mag Slecht, “The Plain of Prostrations,” 



The Idol 


175 


To say bluntly that this was one of the most danger¬ 
ous places in Ireland for him to go to is not to tell 
a lie. On Mag Slecht stood demonic Crom Cruach, 
chief idol of pagan Ireland. He was made of stone, 
Crom Cruach was; stone covered with rich en¬ 
crustations of gold and silver and ’round and all 
about him, forming a sacred circle, a bodyguard 
as it were, stood twelve lesser idols. Inside that 
circle, many’s the beautiful, young child was sacri¬ 
ficed to Crom Cruach. See what the ancient 
writers say: 

Milk and corn, 

They used to ask of him urgently, 

For a third of their offspring. 

Great was its horror and wailing. 

Yes, that they might have their fill and plenty 
of milk and corn. Imagine the like of it! 

Happily, Saint Patrick was not walking Mag 
Slecht just for the good of his health; he was there 
to save the people of the plain from their ignorance, 
to destroy Crom Cruach if at all possible. 

Strangely enough, when he first caught sight 
of the idol rising up before him in the distance, 
he thought it an inspiring sight. This because 
Crom Cruach was conspiring with the sun whose 
rays danced, creating a kaleidoscope of color 
amongst its silver and gold facings. Being come 
closer, however, the false impression faded away 
and gradually he saw the idol with different eyes. 



176 


My Saint Patrick 


What he saw was: he saw a hideous, stone mon¬ 
ster with blood stained base, stiff in its standing 
and towering high above a scattering of pitifully 
small bleached bones. He shuddered. Little Ben- 
nen, close by his side, shuddered too and pressed 
against him; a great fear on him, a great fear . 

Seeing their idol visited by strangers, the men 
of the plain came forth from their duns. He who 
was their leader, addressed himself to Saint Patrick. 

“Welcome to Mag Slecht, O Stranger,” he said. 
“Come you to offer sacrifice?” 

“Aye, to offer sacrifice,” Saint Patrick replied. 

“The boy here is it?” 

The leader of the men of the plain indicated 
Bennen with a gnarled thumb. 

Trembling, Bennen hid himself in Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s robes. 

“That is not the manner of my sacrifice.” 

It seemed that Saint Patrick was having diffi¬ 
culty curbing his anger as he reached back to pat 
Bennen reassuringly on the head. 

“ ’Tis the only manner of pleasing Crom 
Cruach,” vouched the leader of the men of the 
plain. 

“You make a further mistake if it is thinking 
you are that my sacrifice is to be offered to that 
useless piece of stone,” Saint Patrick told him. 

“Useless—useless piece of stone!” The leader 
of the men of the plain was aghast. 

His followers murmured angrily. 




The Idol 177 

Turning to them, he asked, “Did you hear? 
Useless piece of stone?” 

“Aye, we heard, heard only to well. Let him 
pay for the insult with his blood.” 

With a savage gesture the leader of the men of 
the plain unsheathed his sword. 

Hastily, Saint Patrick retreated with Bennen to 
the foot of the idol while his disciples did their 
best to cover his retreat. But the leader of the 
men of the plain was a man fast on his feet. He 
was too quick for them and too strong for them, 
too. He brushed them aside the way he would 
brush young oats aside and he walking through it. 

It was then that Saint Patrick cried, “If this 
man be not held back, I will cause Crom Cruach to 
topple over him!” 

As if he had been stabbed, the leader of the men 
of the plain halted in his tracks. 

For a moment there was silence, a tense silence. 

Saint Patrick remained standing majestically 
at the foot of the idol, one arm around Bennen’s 
shoulders. 

All at once the people of the plain broke into a 
confused chattering. 

Their leader walked back towards them. 

What to do? What to do? Nobody seemed to 
know what to do. 

At last one bolder than the rest called out, “By 
what power can you cause Crom Cruach to topple?” 

“By the power of the Lord Jesus whose name 



178 


My Saint Patrick 


I have come to make familiar to you,” Saint Pat¬ 
rick called back. 

Jesus? 

The name meant nothing to the people of the 
plain. 

Meanwhile, their leader had regained his cour¬ 
age and decided that Saint Patrick was bluffing. 

“Cause Crom Cruach to topple first!” he cried. 

Only by the sudden clenching of his fists did 
Saint Patrick betray his surprise. Hastily, pray¬ 
ing for guidance, he answered, “If it be the will 
of God, I will do it.” 

Lifting up his crozier, he aimed a blow at the 
idol but missed. 

A murmur of doubt went up from the people. 

Saint Patrick tried again; this time aiming at 
the idoPs right side, the side facing towards Tara. 

He hit it. 

With a cry of, “Mind yourselves!” he stepped 
to one side. 

Thor, the thunder god, could have made no more 
noise than Crom Cruach falling, and falling it drove 
the twelve lesser idols down into the ground, leav¬ 
ing only their heads above the earth; a mark of 
the miracle Saint Patrick had wrought. 

After that, the people of the plain were more 
than ready to hear of Jesus. Later they caused a 
church to be built where Crom Cruach stood. 
Saint Patrick left his disciple, Methbrain, in charge 
of that church. 



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
The Journey with Enda 


The year of our Lord four hundred and thirty-two 
died hard. It would seem that after rambling the 
world for three hundred and sixty-five days and 
nights, there was small liking on it for its narrow 
plot in the Graveyard of the Years. But Time, 
that toothlessly ancient yet ever vigorous grave 
digger, was not to be denied; at its appointed hour, 
he bade the year take leave of all it held dear 
while he rolled back his sleeves and otherwise pre¬ 
pared to wait on it in his official capacity. 

So the year went the way of all years. And a 
new year was in it, a year whose early months, 
bleak, bitter and brazen of weather, passed slowly 
enough. Spring came and was kindly welcome. 
Easter followed, bringing back memories of Saint 
Patrick’s triumph at Tara the previous Easter. 
Memories, however, are intangible things; a pen¬ 
sion, as it were, from the past. The happenings 
of the present loomed more important. There was 
Logaire, for instance. He was sending messengers 
westward, inviting Saint Patrick to Tara to bap- 

179 



180 


My Saint Patrick 


tise Ere mac Dega, the far famed lawyer who, 
you may remember, rose in his standing before 
Saint Patrick on the hill of Slane and who had come 
since to believe in God. 

True, Logaire’s reason for so doing was that he 
was curious. He wished to see the ceremony of 
Baptism performed, having heard so much about 
it. Certainly, it was not in his head to become a 
Christian himself, for he had sworn to remain 
pagan and he meant to keep his promise. 

When Saint Patrick arrived at Tara in answer 
to the invitation, he had with him his disciples 
and a large body of converts from Mag Slecht and 
other western places. This did not please Logaire. 

Reproachfully, he said, “It was only yourself 
I asked, Bishop Patrick, not half the countryside.” 

Saint Patrick smiled patiently. 

“I could not come alone, O king/’ he replied. 
“My converts wish to be baptised. Were they to 
wait for the next baptismal day some of them 
might die and I would always be blaming myself 
that they lost their right to Heaven because of 
the delay.” 

“Then, you do not baptise every day?” Logaire 
was surprised. 

“Only on the feasts of Easter, the Epiphany and 
Pentecost,” Saint Patrick explained. 

Such indeed was the fifth century custom. 

In view of this, Logaire was forced to accept 
the converts and house and feed them; also, Saint 



The Journey with Enda 


181 


Patrick asked that a font be provided for the oc¬ 
casion. So great was his curiosity, Logaire donated 
one. To be sure, it was not a new font that he 
gave but an old, pagan one called Loigles, “the 
Calf of the Cities.” But it was the way Saint Pat¬ 
rick made a Christian font of it by blessing it and 
consecrating it to Almighty God. 

To you who were baptised, no doubt, scream- 
ing your head off in a nurse’s arms, disturbing 
the peace of the church, the ceremonies on that 
Easter Sunday at Tara would have seemed strange 
but absorbing. 

Naturally, both because of his high standing 
and because Saint Patrick had come to Tara for 
the purpose, Ere mac Dega was the first of the 
converts to be baptised. Naked, standing about 
six feet three—a fine cut of a man—he approached 
the font. 

Saint Patrick stood waiting. 

As Ere mac Dega came to a standstill before 
him, he wetted his fingers with spittle, applying 
them to the lawyer’s lips and ears and bidding 
them: “Be thou opened unto odour of sweetness. 
But do thou flee, O Devil, for the judgment of God 
is at hand.” 

Ere mac Dega then turned to the west, renounc¬ 
ing Satan. 

Following this, he turned to the east and recited 
the Lord’s prayer. 

He was now ready to enter the font. 




182 


My Saint Patrick 


With eager eyes Logaire and his court followed 
his every move, obviously entranced. 

Entering the font, Ere mac Dega stood still in 
his standing while Saint Patrick thrice poured 
water over his head. 

“I baptise thee in the name of the Father and 
of the Son and of the Holy Ghost,” he solemnly 
pronounced. 

A deacon, one of Saint Patrick’s disciples, 
stepped forward at this juncture and while Saint 
Patrick continued to pray, he annointed Ere mac 
Dega all over with scented oil. 

Then, dipping his thumb in the oil, Saint Patrick 
made the Sign of the Cross on his brow, calling 
down upon him the sevenfold spirit. 

Thus was Ere mac Dega baptised and in his 
wake followed the converts and they standing in 
line, according to rank while those of no rank 
brought up the rear. 

Now, during a lull in the ceremonies, Saint Pat¬ 
rick chanced to overhear the conversation of two 
nobles. 

It was the way one was saying to the other, 
“What is your name? Where do you hail from?” 

Proudly, came the reply, “The name on me is 
Enda. A son of King Amolngid who died a while 
back, am I. My territory and that of my brothers 
lies to the west, nigh to the wild sea, ’round and 
about the plain of Dommon.” 

For some reason, the mention of Enda’s terri- 



The Journey with Enda 


183 


tory stirred a cord in Saint Patrick’s heart. It was 
as if a voice within him were counselling that he 
go there. So, leaving his place near the font, he 
walked, a man with a purpose, to where Enda stood. 

Challengingly, Enda looked up at him. 

“Enda, son of Amolngid, I must return with you 
to your territory,” Saint Patrick said simply. 

At once Enda was up in arms against the pro¬ 
posal. 

“It is dangerous territory for a Christian,” he 
cried. “You would find your death there.” 

“Even so, I must go,” Saint Patrick insisted. 

“I’ll not have you and that’s flat,” Enda pro¬ 
tested. 

Slowly, deliberately Saint Patrick measured 
Enda with steadfast eye. 

Unflinching, Enda returned his gaze. 

Men fighting for mastery, they were. At last, 
Saint Patrick spoke. 

“Enda, you will never set eyes on the plain of 
Dommon again,” he said. “You will perish by the 
way unless I go with you, for God has ordained 
it so.” 

Startled, Enda drew back, courage, doubt and 
fear fighting for honors on his pale face. 

At that precise moment, however, the baptismal 
ceremonies were resumed and Saint Patrick was 
needed at the font. Leaving Enda to ponder the 
matter, he returned to his duties. 

Left alone, for the noble with whom he had been 



184 


My Saint Patrick 


conversing, had moved away, Enda’s thoughts, 
at first all of Saint Patrick, gradually turned to 
other matters. Indeed, it was not surprising that 
they should. He had come to Tara with his brothers 
on an important mission. Unable to agree amongst 
themselves as to how their father’s property should 
be divided, they decided to lay the matter before 
Logaire and abide by his decision. The unforeseen 
baptismal ceremonies were delaying the hearing of 
the case. Despite an outwardly calm demeanor, 
Enda inside was a raging, storm-tossed sea of 
nerves. Being the eldest of the brothers, he had 
more at stake; at least, he imagined so. In reality, 
the reverse was the case. A first born son always re¬ 
ceived greater consideration. Such was the law of 
the land. Nevertheless, Enda continued to fume 
and fret and sink his teeth deep in his lower lip, 
impatient for the time when Logaire would be free 
to settle the matter. 

Meanwhile, a rumor was rife among the court 
officers that Logaire had invited Saint Patrick to 
sit in judgment with him on Enda’s case. 

Gossiping among themselves, the court officers 
were inclined to scoff at the rumor. A Christian 
to sit in judgment at Tara! No, it was impossible! 

The impossible, however, sometimes happens. 
Already, it had happened time out of number for 
Saint Patrick. 

Imagine Enda’s surprise, therefore, when on 



The Journey with Enda 


185 


entering the courtroom, he beheld Saint Patrick 
seated at Logaire’s right hand. His surprise quickly 
gave way to fear and preoccupation. Mentally, he 
chastised himself for having refused Saint Patrick 
admittance to his territory. Doubtless, Saint Pat¬ 
rick would have his revenge now that he was in 
a position to do so. 

At last the testimony was all delivered. 

Enda and his six brothers had pleaded their 
cause, each submitting his proposal as to how the 
land should be divided. But, seemingly, Logaire 
was confused and puzzled and unable to hand 
down a decision. Behind his hand, he whispered 
to Saint Patrick. 

Enda’s heart fell. He knew that Logaire was 
asking Saint Patrick to decide the issue. 

For a minute or two, Saint Patrick sat lost in 
thought. 

A rustle of robes as some member of the audience 
crossed or uncrossed his legs, was the only sound 
to disturb the stillness of the room. 

Rising to his feet, at last, and bowing to Logaire, 
Saint Patrick spoke. 

“O king,” he said, “I would divide the land 
eight ways equally and to each brother I would 
give his share.” 

The courtroom tittered to a man. 

Eight divisions! There were only seven 
brothers! 



186 My Saint Patrick 

Logaire was quick to call this to Saint Patrick’s 
attention. 

“True, there are only seven brothers,” Saint 
Patrick replied unabashed, “I was about to add 
that since Enda is the eldest, the eighth share 
should go to his first born son.” 

“A fair enough judgment,” Enda cried, hardly 
believing his ears. 

His brothers nodded their agreement. 

“A fair enough and a wise enough judgment,” 
lauded Logaire, thereby ruling it the verdict. 

After this, it is small wonder that friendship 
became the keynote between Saint Patrick and 
Enda. In the first flush of his gratitude, Enda 
dedicated Connal, his first born son to him, along 
with Connal’s share of the territory. Moreover, 
he showed himself willing to take Saint Patrick 
back with him to his territory and that, of course, 
was what Saint Patrick wanted more than anything 
else in the world, for not alone was it divinely re¬ 
vealed to him to go there, but the winning of its 
pagan inhabitants promised a hard fight which 
surely must try his mettle as a missioner. 

The ride across Ireland in Enda’s fast-horsed 
chariots was a glorious one. Rare and beautiful 
scenery, the like of which adorns no place else 
on earth, gladdened Saint Patrick’s heart every 
mile of the way. Hills, plains, rivers and lakes, all 
possessed of some peculiarly mystic charm, passed 
in review and grew smaller and smaller and van¬ 
ished at last below the horizon. 



The Journey with Enda 


187 


Passing through a leafy glen about thirty miles 
out of Tara, Saint Patrick saw the thrilling sight 
of a herd of red deer that, startled by the rumbling 
of the chariot wheels, fled fleet of foot in search 
of fresh and quieter pastures. Further on, he saw 
a fox, its brush out behind it in line with its back 
and it making for cover. “ Och , the bold, splendid 
thief!” he murmured admiringly as it disappeared 
in a clump of furze. Later, a pack of wolves crossed 
his line of vision; they in their alert standing by 
a thin line of pine woods. He could see their fangs 
gleaming evilly and he chuckled a little remember¬ 
ing the time he had been frightened by wolves 
on Slemish and had gone gathering cipeens for a 
fire to frighten them away the while he trembled 
all over like a wet dog on a cold day. The reminis¬ 
cent picture, growing up clearly before him, caused 
his chuckle to grow to a laugh so that Enda whose 
chariot he rode, asked to be let in on the joke. 

But fun has its place and so has work. Nobody 
knew that better than Saint Patrick and it was the 
way he would be crying halt every once in a while 
to go among the people and bring them word of his 
Master. 

Near Lake Kilglass in the land of the Children 
of Aileel such a halt was made and there Ailbe, 
a man of the tribe of the Children of Aileel, was 
converted by Saint Patrick; no, he was both con¬ 
verted and ordained a priest for he was a man of 
unusual abilities, fit in every way to be God's 
minister. 



188 


My Saint Patrick 


Now, it happened that not far away from Ailbe’s 
dun was a secret place where Mass used to be cele¬ 
brated by Christians earlier than Saint Patrick. 

In some way—probably one of his disciples had 
heard tell of it—Saint Patrick learned of the place 
and he made it known to Ailbe. 

It was a poor place as places go, being noth¬ 
ing more than a deep hole in the side of a heather 
kissed hill. In it, however, Saint Patrick pointed 
out to Ailbe an altar and four glass chalices. 

“I will say Mass here myself/’ Ailbe said. 

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Saint Patrick cau¬ 
tioned. “The sides would cave in on you sure as 
day.” 

Like the mouse that looked out to see if the cat 
was still there, that is to say unconvinced, Ailbe 
stepped close to the edge. If he did the yellow clay 
at his feet began to crumble and trickle down the 
sides to the foot of the altar. 

“Now what do you know about that!” he ex¬ 
claimed, quickly stepping back. “I’ll have to build 
a church, I’m thinking.” 

And that is just what Ailbe did. 

From Lake Kilglass, Saint Patrick visited Lough 
Carra and Lough Arrow, planting settlements and 
winning new disciples in both of those places. 
Thence, the journey to Enda’s territory took him 
north into the land of Brian, a brother of Niall 
of the Nine Hostages, whose sons, Bole the 
Red, Dertacht, Eichen, Crenthan, Coelcharna and 




The Journey with Enda 


189 


Echaid—fierce warriors all—became Christians. 

It was while in Brian’s land that Saint Patrick 
one day climbed a high hill near Lough Selce. 
With him were several of his disciples. It was 
their wish to look at the country from on high, to 
see it as the birds see it. A pretty sight they saw, 
all right! Below them, the lake sparkled like an 
emerald. To the north and the west, the sea 
stretched out; its giant, foamy waves hurling them¬ 
selves against the high rocks of the coast with a 
weird soughing noise barely audible to their ears. 
To the south lay Mag Slecht and fallen Crom 
Cruach, while a chain of low-lying mountains, 
purple of color, ran lengthwise in the east, hiding 
from sight the midland plains. 

Pleased with the little excursion, Saint Patrick 
suggested writing their names on three stones on 
the summit which he marked, Jesus , Christus and 
Soter. This, they did and many’s the time people 
climbed the hill to see their names and to say a 
prayer to Saint Patrick. 

At length in their long journey, they crossed the 
river Moy at the very spot where the town of 
Ballina stands today, and were then in the prov¬ 
ince of Tirawley, not far from Enda’s territory. 

Here, Enda once again warned Saint Patrick 
that he would meet with a hostile reception and 
advised him to be watchful day and night for his 
life. 

The warning was not untimely. 




190 


My Saint Patrick 


What happened was: as they crossed the borders 
of Enda’s territory, nine druids, dressed all in 
white and looking more like ghosts than men, came 
rushing out of ambush, death in their hearts for 
Saint Patrick. 

Frightened by the appearance of the druids, the 
horses reared high, nearly toppling over back¬ 
wards. Luckily, Enda and his brothers knew 
horses; with a sharp word or two and a belt of 
the reins they had them on their four legs again 
although they, poor beasts, continued to sweat 
and shiver with fright. 

Meanwhile, the druids had surrounded Enda and 
Saint Patrick’s chariot. Swords, thirsting for blood, 
gleamed in their hands. 

Desperate now, Enda drew his own sword to 
protect Saint Patrick who was silently praying. 

His brothers and Saint Patrick’s disciples hur¬ 
ried from the rear to lend aid. 

But just then Rechrad, the leader of the druids, 
who had climbed on the hub of the wheel and 
whose swordblade was within inches of Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s heart, fell backwards, a victim, even as was 
the archdruid Lochru, of a sudden heart attack. 

Their leader stricken, a panic ensued among his 
followers. 

That discretion was the better part of valor 
must have occurred to them, for after a moment’s 
hesitation, they turned tail and fled across the wild, 
wild plain of Dommon. 




CHAPTER NINETEEN 

On Cruachain Aigli 


The province of Connaught, wherein lay Enda’s 
territory, is for the most part a mountainous, rock- 
floored region. 

Once on a time, there was an English soldier- 
scullion named Cromwell who had a very poor 
opinion of Connaught. He thought it no better 
than Hell. Since he had no knowledge of Hell at 
all at the time, however, his opinion carries no 
weight. 

What Saint Patrick thought of Connaught may 
be gathered from this which is written down in 
ancient and illuminated manuscripts: 

191 








192 


My Saint Patrick 


Thrice did Patrick wend across the Shannon 
into the land of Connaught. Fifty bells and 
fifty chalices and fifty altar cloths he left in 
it, each in its own church. Seven years he was 
a-preaching to the men of Connaught and he 
left his blessing with them when he departed. 

Now it was in his seventh year in Connaught and 
he fast aging, that Saint Patrick felt the need for 
close communion with God. 

In olden times, Moses and Elias felt the same 
need and what they did was: they went up onto 
a high mountain and for forty days and forty 
nights they stayed there; too, Jesus, while on 
earth, felt the need and He did as Moses and Elias 
did. 

So, it is not to be wondered at that Saint Patrick 
chose to go up onto a mountain for forty days and 
forty nights. The mountain he chose was Crua- 
chain Aigli , “the Mountain of the Eagles,” which, 
presently is called Croagh Patrick. 

Surrounded on three sides by the wild, foaming 
Atlantic, Croagh Patrick has an air at once en¬ 
trancing and mysterious. The bean-sidhe, the fairy- 
woman who by her weird keening foretells death 
for Ireland’s royal blooded families, once lived 
atop Croagh Patrick. There in a fine invisible 
palace, she used to give great banquets to her 
friends among the fairies. Often’s the time a mor¬ 
tal musician was whisked away from his own snug 
hearth to play at those banquets and ever after- 



On Cruachain Aigli 


193 


wards he would be able to make such sweet music 
as never before was heard. This, to be sure, made 
ordinary musicians green of envy and what did 
they do one time but climb Croagh Patrick to 
court the bean-sidhe’s favor. Alas, the bean-sidhe 
would have none of them. She was well able to 
pick her own musicians when she had need of 
any she said and, calling to her bodyguard of wide¬ 
winged eagles, she bade them chase the musicians 
away. ‘Tick out their eyes,” she commanded, 
“that never again may they climb up here to dis¬ 
turb me in my quiet peace! ” Blinded and scrawbed 
out of recognition, the musicians returned to their 
homes, lamenting their unfortunate lot. 

It was at Whitsuntide and in the year of our 
Lord four hundred and forty that Saint Patrick 
climbed Croagh Patrick. The bean-sidhe was not 
there then. She had moved long since to Slieve na 
mbean, the Hills of the Women, in Golden Tipper¬ 
ary. Her palace was there though. And it was 
inhabited too. An army of demons that had been 
sent by Satan to tempt and torture Saint Patrick, 
had taken possession of it. 

Arriving at the summit of the hill, Saint Patrick 
picked out a hard grey stone on which to kneel 
and at once gave himself up to prayer. 

For a whole day the demons did not bother him. 
Then, fearing lest he become too strongly imbued 
with the grace of God, they sallied forth and the 
shape on them sallying forth was the shape of the 



194 


My Saint Patrick 


ebon black raven and in flocks they began to swarm 
about Saint Patrick’s head, whispering in his ear 
falsehoods they had prepared in advance. 

“Hell is a palace of fun!” they whispered. 

“Of Laughter!” 

“Of Love!” 

“Of Sport!” 

“Of Feasting!” 

“Of Music!” 

“Of Dancing!” 

“Hell is a place without Prayer or Fasting!” 

“Come, Patrick, give us your soul! In Hell you 
will be the king’s favorite. He will make you a 
prince. Give you a castle and grounds for your 
own. The most beautiful princess in Hell shall 
be yours for wife. Oh, listen to us, Patrick! Lis¬ 
ten and heed us well. We are your friends.” 

Showered thus by demonic lies and afterwards 
tortured by unholy visions conjured up by the 
demons before his eyes, Saint Patrick’s sieged soul 
groaned in anguish, his body trembled as if palsied 
and his head swam and ached and pulsated at the 
temples till it seemed his very veins must burst. 

And still the demons persisted, lying, taunting, 
torturing, scourging, wheedling, ranting, laughing, 
screaming, cursing; all in an effort to break down 
Saint Patrick’s resistance, to destroy his great 
faith and to enter and take possession of him. 

At last, feeling that he could stand no more, 
Saint Patrick reached down and, picking up his 



On Cruachain Aigli 195 

bell, flung it with all his remaining strength at the 
demons. 

Of the blow he struck them, it is written that 
it was so effective that not a demon was seen in 
Ireland again for seven years and seven months 
and seven days. 

But the bell broke. The gap fell out of it. And 
that was the bell Saint Brigid had in later years, 
the bell now called “Brigid’s Gapling.” 

Although he was now free of the demons, Saint 
Patrick showed no joy at his deliverance. So great 
had been the strain to which he was subjected 
that instead of rejoicing he wept; the salt tears 
coursing down his cheeks onto his robes, drench¬ 
ing them through and through. 

But presently Jesus took pity on Saint Patrick 
and it is what He did, He filled the air about his 
head with beautiful white birds, dovelike of size 
that sang heavenly melodies as they fluttered to 
and fro on the air; too, Jesus sent an angel to 
console Saint Patrick and it was the angel that 
caused his tears to cease to flow and dried his robes 
for him lest he catch cold on the wind-ridden 
mountaintop in them. 

And afterwards the angel spoke to Saint Pat¬ 
rick of the favors he had asked of Jesus in his 
hours of prayer before the demons attacked him. 
And Saint Patrick repeated his requests and said 
that he would stay where he was till they were 
granted him. 



196 


My Saint Patrick 


Then, the angel withdrew but Saint Patrick re¬ 
mained in his kneeling on the hard cold stone, 
praying and fasting and it was not until forty days 
had passed that the angel returned. 

And returning, what the angel said was: “Pat¬ 
rick, the Lord Jesus grants you the boon of bring¬ 
ing a number of souls out of pain; the number to 
be as many as would fill the space your eye sees out 
to sea.” 

But Saint Patrick made answer, “My eye does 
not see far out to sea.” 

“As many, then, as would fill the space your eye 
sees inland and out to sea,” amended the angel. 

But Saint Patrick answered as before, “My 
eye does not see far inland nor out to sea.” 

So the angel soared Heavenwards to consult with 
Jesus. When he returned, he brought these tidings: 
“The Lord Jesus will grant you the boon of bring¬ 
ing seven out of Hell every Thursday, Patrick.” 

“And the twelve I asked for on Saturdays?” 
Saint Patrick inquired. 

“They will be granted to you too,” the angel 
replied. 

“And my other requests?” said Saint Patrick. 

“It is granted that a great sea shall cover Ire¬ 
land seven years before Judgment Day and that 
all who recite your hymn shall not have pain nor 
suffering of any sort on that day.” 

“But my hymn is so long, so difficult,” Saint 
Patrick protested. 



On Cruachain Aigli 


197 


“Let it be this way then,” said the angel. “All 
who shall give an alms or do penance in your 
name in Ireland shall not go the Hell.” 

“And is it granted that I sit in judgment on the 
people of Ireland on Judgment Day?” Saint Pat¬ 
rick wished to know. 

But of this request the angel seemed to have no 
knowledge. So once more he withdrew, leaving 
Saint Patrick to his prayers. 

This time he was a longer time gone than before. 

Saint Patrick began to fear that he had asked 
too much. 

But no. The angel came back at last and the 
news he brought with him was good news. 

“The Lord Jesus grants you the boon of sitting 
in judgment on the people of Ireland, Patrick,” 
he said. 

So great was his joy that Saint Patrick leaned 
forward to embrace the angel but the angel had 
disappeared, this time not to return. 

His long vigil thus being brought to a close, 
Saint Patrick, having first thanked Almighty God 
for His great kindness of Heart, rose up in his 
standing and straightening his robes and gather¬ 
ing up his crozier and the broken bell, prepared to 
depart. 

Half way down the mountainside, he turned and 
looked back. What he saw was a snowball of a 
cloud resting on the very spot where he had prayed 
and suffered and at length been rewarded. 



CHAPTER TWENTY 
Ethne the Fair and Fedlem the Ruddy 


Rathcroghan is the fairylike name on a wee 
Connaught town. But not always could you be 
playing ball unminded in the middle of Rath¬ 
croghan. Time was when Rathcroghan sheltered 
royalty. It was a palace then and Eochaid Feid- 
lech, it was, that built it for Maeve, his daughter, 
Queen of Connaught. 

It would not be talking wildly to say that Maeve 
was the most beautiful queen ever to tread lightly 
the great halls of Rathcroghan, nor would it be 
twisting truth to say that Maeve had more than 
beauty to her name; no, it would not. Skilled in 
all the manly arts of war was Maeve. A warrior 
without peer among women was she. 

Once it was the way Conchubar, king of Ulster, 
was on his way with a band of picked fighting 
men to attack Maeve. When Maeve’s spies brought 
her the tidings, she said to her warriors, “Come, 
let us build a house all of soldiers, leaving the door 
open wide.” 

Along came Conchubar on battle bloody bent. 

198 



Ethne and Fedletn 


199 


Out went Maeve to trick him inside the house. 
Like a skillful angler she baited him and she played 
him till she had him within the four walls. Then, 
the door of five hundred soldiers closed and caught 
was kingly Conchubar and no blood spilled. 

(O, Maeve, Mistress of Rathcroghan, Queen of 
wild Connaught, where are you now? Is it your 
ghost does be roaming the land in the black of these 
long winter nights and you keening your sorrow 
for our hapless warriors who know not how to van¬ 
quish an enemy, who stand betrayed by him in 
whom they placed their trust and who know not 
the moment nor the hour when they will be cast 
into prison, there to die mysteriously or suffer 
those terrible tortures which lead to the mad¬ 
house?) 

Yes, in Queen Maeve’s day, Rathcroghan was 
a place of great renown and even in Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s time its glory was not all gone from it, for 
it was the ancestral home of Logaire, the High- 
King, and living there, away from the worldliness 
of Tara and cared for by the brother druids, Maol 
and Calpait, were Logaire’s daughters, Ethne the 
Fair and Fedlem the Ruddy. 

One bright summer day, Ethne the Fair and 
Fedlem the Ruddy rose out of their deep innocent 
sleeping and light-heartedly made their way down 
to the well of Clebach where they were wont to 
bathe of a morning. 

Although they did not know it then, it was the 



200 


My Saint Patrick 


last time they would ever make the short journey 
through the woods which fringed the sparkling, 
clear waters of the well. A happier journey was in 
store for them that morning, one which would take 
them away from Ireland to a place whose geog¬ 
raphy man is not permitted to know. 

Nearing their destination, the young princesses 
heard voices raised in peculiar song. 

Wide-eyed with wonder, Ethne the Fair ex¬ 
claimed, “It must be the fairy people!” 

“Indeed it must,” agreed Fedlem the Ruddy. 
“Perhaps we could be gazing on them if we went 
in a little closer.” 

“Perhaps, if we go quietly, ever so quietly the 
way the cipeens on the path won’t be snapping un¬ 
der us, making a noise,” said Ethne the Fair. 

Their tender hearts beating fast, the two prin¬ 
cesses crept along until, from behind a tree, they 
could see the well. 

This is what they saw there: they saw a group 
of nine, white-garmented, long-bearded men, each 
with his pate shaven close. 

Obviously they were not fairy people; they had 
no wings, besides they were of mortal size. 

In a circle, ’round about one who seemed their 
leader, they stood and they singing, nay, chant¬ 
ing their weirdly impressive song. 

Impatient to know who they were, Fedlem the 
Ruddy called out, “Who are you singing by our 
well?” 



Ethne and Fedlem 


201 


So unexpectedly disturbed, the group of men 
left off chanting so quickly you would think them 
beset by wasps. 

“God bless us and save us! Who is in it at all at 
all?” cried Saint Patrick, for he it was, saying 
morning matins with his disciples while on his way 
east from Croagh Patrick. 

Shyly, Ethne the Fair and Fedlem the Ruddy 
revealed themselves and made known who they 
were. 

Being young, they were curious and it was not 
long before they were showering Saint Patrick 
with questions. 

“What are you doing hereabouts, strange man?” 
they asked. 

“I am a man of God performing with my disci¬ 
ples our daily duty,” Saint Patrick explained. 

“Who is your God? Where does he live,” the 
curious princesses wanted to know. 

“He is Jesus Christ. He lives everywhere, in all 
places both big and little.” 

“Has he sons? Handsome sons?” 

“He has indeed, for all men are his sons.” 

“Is he rich in gold and silver?” 

“He is, since all gold and silver is of His making.” 

“Is He a young or an old God?” 

“He is both old and young.” 

“Will He die or will He live forever?” 

“He will live forever.” 

Very much impressed by Saint Patrick’s an- 



202 


My Saint Patrick 


swers, Ethne the Fair and Fedlem the Ruddy won¬ 
dered that their guardians, Maol and Calpait, had 
not told them anything of this wonderful God. Al¬ 
ready, there was growing within them, a love for 
Him and they questioned Saint Patrick again, 
seeking to learn all about Him all at once. 

God, Saint Patrick told them, was the Creator 
of Heaven and Earth. Everything on Earth was 
His. He was God of the seas and rivers, of the 
sun, the moon and the stars, of mountains and 
valleys, of plains and glens, of ploughed fields 
and meadow-lands. He was God of man whom he 
had created in His own image. Furthermore, He 
was three gods in one God. He was God the 
Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost. 
And all three gods were equal in the one God. 
One was not better in Godliness nor poorer in 
Mercy than the other. 

Ethne the Fair and Fedlem the Ruddy listened 
wonder-struck. The more they heard of God the 
more they loved Him. It was as if God had taken 
up His abode in their hearts, as if He were part of 
them and they longed to see Him, to talk with Him, 
to dedicate their lives to Him. 

Saint Patrick was telling them now how they 
might do that, advising them to turn their thoughts 
away from earthly things to things eternal. Hand¬ 
some men, gold, silver, luxury in living and eating; 
aye and the owning of vast estates, he said, were 



Ethne and Fedlem 


203 


doomed from the Beginning. They could not live 
forever. But Jesus could and did and would always 
live. He was from all time and would be for all 
time. Was it not fitting, therefore, that they should 
seek their nuptials with Jesus rather than with 
earthly princes, few of whom knew God and who 
would demand of them as dowry their right to 
eternal life? 

Entwining their hands and squeezing them to¬ 
gether courageously, Ethne the Fair and Fedlem 
the Ruddy made answer, “We believe all that you 
say, man of God, and will do what you tell us.” 

“First, you must accept the Christian Creed 
and be baptised,” Saint Patrick explained. 

“We accept the Christian Creed. Will you bap¬ 
tise us now, man of God?” 

Faced with two such willing converts, Saint Pat¬ 
rick could not do otherwise than grant them their 
request. He made ready to baptise them at once 
in the well of Clebach, having, perhaps, divine 
knowledge of the great miracle which was to follow. 

When the ceremony was over, the princesses 
asked, “Are we betrothed to Jesus by what you 
have done for us, man of God?” 

“Yes, in a way,” Saint Patrick replied. 

“May we not see Him then?” said Ethne the 
Fair and Fedlem the Ruddy. 

“Not until you have partaken of His Flesh and 
Blood in Holy Communion. Then you may see 



204 


My Saint Patrick 


Him and enter pure His Heavenly bridal chamber.” 

“We would partake at once.” 

Not understanding that Saint Patrick spoke 
figuratively, Ethne the Fair and Fedlem the Ruddy 
believed that they would actually see Jesus after 
Holy Communion. Their Faith was as touching 
as it was great. It was not to go without its re¬ 
ward. 

Saint Patrick, having made his preparations, 
Ethne the Fair and Fedlem the Ruddy knelt down 
on the soft, brown earth and received the Sacred 
Host. 

They had but done so when an alabaster pallor 
marbled their cheeks and, wrapt in sweet sisterly 
embrace, they sank out of their kneeling to lie 
stiffly still at Saint Patrick’s feet. 

So great had been their belief that Jesus had 
liberated them from their mortal bodies that they 
might be with Him always. 

Twin, spotless doves, they soared Heavenwards 
in the morning sky. 




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 
In Disgrace 


It was with feelings of sorrow and anger that Ethne 
the Fair and Fedlem the Ruddy's guardians, the 
brother druids, Maol and Calpait, received the 
tidings of the conversion and flight to Heaven of 
their charges. There are tales written of the magi¬ 
cal feats they performed in an effort to bring about 
the downfall of Saint Patrick. Fortunately, the 
tales end happily. 

Having listened to Saint Patrick's explanation 
of the affair, Maol decided to become a Christian 
himself. Calpait, however, held out and would 
not be convinced. This grieved Maol exceedingly 
and he showed his grief by weeping. Now between 
Maol and Calpait was great love so that when 
Calpait saw Maol weep, his heart melted inside 

205 































206 


My Saint Patrick 


him and he gave way and embraced the new faith. 

Because of this, there is a saying, Is Maol do 
Calpait, “Calpait does as Maol does,” and people 
do be using it whenever one brother is won over 
by another or influenced by him in any way. 

Saint Patrick’s triumph at Rathcroghan then 
seemed complete; but it was not. What happened 
to spoil it was this: 

Secundinus, a member of the British clergy, to¬ 
gether with Isernius and Auxilius, the student day 
friends of Saint Patrick at Auxerre, arrived on the 
scene. A man stern and aloof, yet withal fond of 
flattery—a very human trait this in one destined 
for the sainthood—Secundinus brought sad tidings 
from Britain. 

The British clergy, it seems had convened and 
deposed Saint Patrick as head of the Irish Mis¬ 
sion, appointing Secundinus in his stead. Accord¬ 
ing to Secundinus, they did so because they had 
reason to believe that Saint Patrick mishandled 
monies sent to him from Britain and accepted 
gifts from the Irish for himself. 

If true, the accusation presented a trait hitherto 
unrevealed in Saint Patrick’s character. 

But was it true? 

The question may best be answered by observ¬ 
ing how it affected Saint Patrick. At first, he 
could not believe that such things had been said 
of him even by the British clergy whom he knew 
to be hostile to him and it is what he did, he smote 



In Disgrace 


207 


his fist in anger, exclaiming, “Is it of me, Patrick, 
they say such things? Me, Patrick who in this land 
has baptised thousands of men, women and chil¬ 
dren, with never a thought nor hope for as much 
as a blade of withered grass from any one of them? 
Me, Patrick who has ordained clergy for the Lord 
in every place I set foot without once asking a 
breath of air for my services? Och, let them say 
the like of that against me and I’ll give it all back 
and more!” 

“They say that they have proof.” This, firmly 
from Secundinus. 

Again Saint Patrick smote his fist and his voice 
roared out anew, hushing the leaves of the trees 
for fear. 

“The monies I have spent,” he said fiercely, 
“have been spent that the people of Ireland might 
receive me in Jesus’ name. To pagan plains be¬ 
yond which no man has ever gone, there went I. 
And on the way I made gifts to kings, chieftains, 
nobles and judges that I might have free passage; 
aye, and even though I -did pay, I was attacked on 
all sides. My disciples have been thrashed till they 
bled rivers. I have had my life threatened several 
times; only by God’s mercy was it spared me. The 
clergy of Britain know these things. Moreover, 
they know how much I paid for protection. Why 
then, in God’s holy name, do they torment me so?” 

Overcome, Saint Patrick wept. 

His disciples wept too, the choking sobs of Ben- 



208 


My Saint Patrick 


nen echoing through the trees, causing the rabbits 
burrowed safe among the roots to huddle closer 
together, anxious and fearful, they not knowing 
what tragedy was being played out to its bitter 
end over their quivering, elongated ears. 

Yet the decree of the British clergy was final. 
No amount of impassioned nor Christian speech, 
no gale of weeping could alter it. Secundinus 
would have to take over leadership of the Mission. 
If Saint Patrick cared to remain in some minor 
capacity all well and good. If he chose to go else¬ 
where, that was his affair. This last a hint that the 
British clergy would not grieve were he to return 
whence he came, that is to say to Auxerre. 

But the British clergy had misjudged Saint Pat¬ 
rick in more ways than one. They gave him credit 
for no brains at all. Furthermore, because they 
saw in him, as did everybody else w T ho came in con¬ 
tact with him, a saintly character, they made bold 
to think him a jellyfish on which they could trample 
and bury, crushed out of all recognition, in the 
sands of their own ambition. 

Perhaps it is well that they so underestimated 
him. Otherwise, they might have taken steps to 
foil the plan rapidly growing up in his mind as he 
stood listening to Secundinus. 

Be it forever to their chagrin, what Saint Pat¬ 
rick planned to do was to go to Rome to lay his 
case before the Pope. 



In Disgrace 


209 


Leaving Ireland, Saint Patrick went at once to 
Auxerre, thence to Arles, a monastery in southern 
Gaul of which Hilary, brother of Honorius of the 
Isles de Lerins , was abbot. 

Arles, at the time, was invested by the Pope with 
jurisdiction over all Catholic Gaul, Britain and 
the Irish Mission. It was necessary, therefore, that 
Saint Patrick seek at Arles permission to proceed 
to Rome. Evidently, Hilary showed himself sympa¬ 
thetic, for Saint Patrick after a brief stay contin¬ 
ued on his way. It must have been while he was 
between Arles and Rome that the Pope, Sixthus 
the Third died. 

In the year of our Lord four hundred and thirty- 
two, Sixthus the Third had succeeded Celestine to 
the Papacy. Celestine, it will be remembered, was 
he who appointed Palladius to the Irish Mission 
prior to Saint Patrick. 

For eight years then, Sixthus the Third was 
Pope, his eight years corresponding almost day 
for day with Saint Patrick’s eight years in Ireland. 

Succeeding Sixthus the Third came Leo. So, it 
was before Leo that Saint Patrick was to lay his 
case. Now Leo was one of the greatest Popes of 
all time. With Pope Gregory, he shares the signal 
honor of being called, “the Great.” Also, he has 
been canonised and now is prayed to as Saint Leo. 

But be that as it may, Saint Patrick did not 
have to wait the approval of any council to recog- 



210 


My Saint Patrick 


nize in Pope Leo a saint. He knew it the minute 
that he was ushered into his presence. 

Let it also be said that Pope Leo did not con¬ 
sider Saint Patrick any run of the mill holy man. 
But this was not unusual since Saint Patrick’s 
saintliness was so obvious that had he been sud¬ 
denly stripped of it, not even Bennen, his dearest 
friend, would have recognized him. 

Having laid bare the injustices of the British 
clergy and spoken at length of his life and work 
and devotion to the Irish, Saint Patrick saw that 
Pope Leo was visibly moved—his words proved 
this to be so. 

“You have come to me then to reinstate you as 
head of the Mission, is that it?” he asked kindly. 

“I have, your Holiness,” Saint Patrick replied. 

“I shall consider the matter. But return now 
to your lodging. You will hear from me there of 
my decision,” said Pope Leo. 

Hope, fairest of the virtues, sent the blood 
rushing to Saint Patrick’s head. Yet he did not 
forget himself a minute. Kneeling at Pope Leo’s 
feet, he kissed the papal ring gracing the strong 
white hand extended towards his bearded lips. 

“Thank you, your Holiness. You have been 
most kind and considerate,” he said, rising to his 
feet. 

“Pray for me, my son,” Pope Leo said, smiling 
a benediction. 

How long Saint Patrick remained in Rome both 



In Disgrace 


211 


before and after hearing Pope Leo’s decision is not 
known. But this much can safely be said: the 
journey to and fro took two whole years. 

But the Pope’s decision! 

It was the way he placed his faith in Saint Pat¬ 
rick. 

“The Irish Mission,” he had sent word, “has 
prospered under your guidance, Patrick; it must 
continue to do so.” 

Naturally, Saint Patrick was covered in happi¬ 
ness from head to toe. 

But that was not all. 

Pope Leo also said, “It is my belief, however, 
that the Irish Mission has outgrown itself. Hence¬ 
forth, it will be my pleasure to look upon it in the 
light of an Ecclesiastical See of which I appoint 
you, Patrick, Archbishop.” 

Saint Patrick’s joy now knew no bounds. 

Still that was not all. 

Pope Leo saw fit to present him with the relics 
of Saint Peter and Saint Paul and many other won¬ 
drous gifts for use in the churches in Ireland. 

Musing to himself on the return journey, Saint 
Patrick was overheard by two robins on a haw- 
thorne bush to say, “Only for you, my Lord Jesus, 
I would be as the dust rising up before my aged 
feet on this white road.” 




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 
The Ridge of the Willows 


To establish headquarters from which he could 
direct the activities of his disciples was the first 
problem with which Saint Patrick had to contend 
and he back in Ireland. 

Turning the matter over in his mind, calling up 
pictures of various and beautiful places, he at length 
decided on a spot atop Ard-Macha, the hill of 
Macha, in the province of Orior. 

But could he get it? 

Would the owner be willing to part with it? 

Well, he could ask; no harm in asking, surely. 

So deciding, Saint Patrick set out for the place. 

Now, the owner, his name was Daire. Daire was 
a chieftain, a rich chieftain; also he was held fair 
and honorable by all who knew him. Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s chances of success, therefore, seemed excel¬ 
lent. 

But what happened was this: having heard Saint 

212 










The Ridge of the Willows 213 


Patrick’s request, Daire took him by the arm in 
friendly fashion. 

“Let you point out the spot you have in mind,” 
he said. 

With his crozier, Saint Patrick indicated his 
choice. 

“Is it the Ridge of the Willows, you mean?” 
Daire seemed taken aback. 

“Yes, the Ridge of the Willows,” said Saint Pat¬ 
rick. 

Daire stroked his beard pensively, letting go 
Saint Patrick’s arm to do so. 

By the stars, but he was embarrassed. Great 
fondness was on him for the Ridge of the Willows. 
Feverishly, he cast about in his mind for a way 
out of the dilemma, a way which would not hurt 
Saint Patrick’s feelings too much. Of a sudden, 
he was blessed with an idea. 

Taking Saint Patrick’s arm again, he said, “Well, 
I’ll tell you,” he said. “I can’t give you the Ridge 
of the Willows. I’m that fond of it I’d as soon lop 
off my hands as part with it. Instead, I’ll give you 
that piece of ground yonder at the foot of the 
hill. ’Tis good building ground and suitable in 
every way for what you have in mind, you have 
my word for it.” 

Bitterly disappointed, nevertheless, Saint Pat¬ 
rick showed gratitude on his face. 

“I’ll take it. ’Tis the kind man you are, Daire,” 
he said. 



214 My Saint Patrick 

And with that both Saint Patrick and Daire 
went for to measure and mark out the piece of 
ground. 

Maybe it was three months later—hard is the 
mild word for keeping track of the days fifteen hun¬ 
dred years gone—with Saint Patrick and his dis¬ 
ciples safely installed and working hard in the place 
given them by Daire, that a servant of Daire’s 
came their way and he leading a fine lump of a 
mare. Going to put her out to grass, he was. But 
it is what he did, he set her to grazing Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s consecrated land. 

“Faith,” said Saint Patrick, “Daire has made the 
big mistake, setting his fine lump of a mare to graze 
the land he gave God.” And out he went to have a 
few mild words with the servant. 

If he did, the servant affected not to hear a word 
he said. Let himself on to be deaf and dumb, he 
did and away with him back to his work, leaving 
the mare behind. 

Put out at such rudeness, Saint Patrick made up 
his mind to have a talk with Daire in a day or so 
when he was not so busy, then he went back in¬ 
doors and thought no more of the matter except 
to look out at the mare once in a while and wonder 
if it was right for her to be there at all at all. 

Next day, however, the servant showed up again. 
It was the way he was expecting the mare to meet 
up with the fairyman that does be bringing colts 





The Ridge of the Willows 215 


and fillies to mother horses once every so often. 
To his sorrow he found the mare alone in the field 
and it is not alive but dead she was. His first sor¬ 
row and fright gone from him, he ran for all he 
was worth to tell Daire that Saint Patrick killed 
her. 

What Daire said to that was this, “Then let 
him be killed too.” And calling to his men, he bade 
them go make an end of Saint Patrick. 

But no sooner had his men started out to do 
his bidding than Daire was struck lifeless. 

Quick as a flash, his wife came to the rescue. 

“This has happened on account of the Chris¬ 
tian,” she cried. “Let some of the servants fly for 
their lives and get his blessing for us and let others 
relate themselves to chain lightning and head off 
those gone forth with murder for an order!” 

For an hour or more, Daire’s house was a tossed 
bed of grief. Nobody knew rightly what would 
happen. But in the hearts of all, beat a faint hope 
that by some miracle Saint Patrick would save the 
master. 

At last, into the yard fronting the house came 
those who had gone forth to obtain Saint Pat¬ 
rick’s blessing. With them they had a horse. 

“By the Sun, ’tis the mare that was dead,” ex¬ 
claimed Daire’s wife, rushing forth in her great 
excitement. 

Sure enough, it was the mare; hale and hearty 
as ever. 



216 


My Saint Patrick 


“How did it happen? Can he do the same for 
the Master?” Daire’s wife wanted to know. 

“He sprinkled her with water he called holy 
and she came to life,” said the servants, holding 
out a jar of the blessed fluid given them by Saint 
Patrick. “He said to do the same for the Master,” 
they continued. “But sure we only told him the 
Master was ill, not dead at all, fearing lest he 
wouldn’t do a thing for us.” 

“Och, a botheration on you for amadans! Give 
me the water.” 

Lord, there was the great impatience on Daire’s 
wife. Into the house she flew to sprinkle dead 
Daire’s body. 

Wonder of wonders and praise be to God and 
Saint Patrick, after the sprinkling, Daire sat up 
yawning the way you would think him rising from 
a nap! 

“Now will you leave your awkward hands off 
that holy man,” chastised his wife, beginning to 
scold the way women will when a weight is gone 
from their minds. 

“I will,” said Daire, cowed. 

And Daire meant what he said. One of the first 
things he did on coming to himself was to go off 
and pay Saint Patrick his respects. But he did not 
go empty handed. Along with him he took a giant, 
bronze cauldron that held three gallons, the same 
having come to him from across the sea, from some 
foreign country. 



The Ridge of the Willows 217 


“Lo,” said he to Saint Patrick when he had 
thanked him for saving his life, “lo, this fine cop¬ 
per cauldron from across the sea is my gift to you.” 

“God bless you,” acknowledged Saint Patrick 
simply. Not another word did he say. 

This did not suit Daire at all. He had expected 
the praises of Heaven itself to ring in his ears in 
exchange for the cauldron. 

A little stiffly, Saint Patrick thought, he took 
his leave. 

Once at home, however, he began to brood. 
Surely, the man could have said more than, God 
bless you? What sort of talk was that anyway 
to be coming from the mouth of a man? A poor 
thank you for his nice cauldron! Sure, he might 
as well have kept it for himself. But maybe it 
was not too late even for that. Now, if he were 
to send messengers . . . ? 

A while later, Saint Patrick found himself con¬ 
fronted by two of Daire’s servants and they clamor¬ 
ing to the skies for the cauldron. 

“God bless you, take it away,” said Saint Pat¬ 
rick. And that was all he said. 

“What did he say?” Daire asked when his serv¬ 
ants returned. 

“He said, 'God bless you,’ ” the servants said. 

“In the name of the Ridge of the Willows, what 
sort of man is he at all at all?” Daire asked him¬ 
self. “God bless you when he gets it, God bless 
you when he looses it; sure, his words are so good, 



218 


My Saint Patrick 


the cauldron must go back to him this minute.” 

This time, Daire was so excited, he took the 
cauldron over himself. 

And what he said was, “This cauldron, it must 
stay with you, for I see that you are a steadfast 
and unchangeable man.” 

“ ’Tis kind of you to say so, Daire,” Saint Pat¬ 
rick said evenly. 

But Daire had not said all he came to say. 

“As for the bit of land up on the hill, the joy 
of my heart, the Ridge of the Willows,” he con¬ 
tinued, “let you be taking it for yourself, let you 
build on it and live on it: I give it you freely.” 

“Daire, my fine friend!” 

The words jumped a lump in Saint Patrick’s 
throat. 

“Oh, ’tis little enough after all you’ve done for 
me, saving my life and all,” said Daire, turning to 
one side and rubbing his eyes. “A speck of dust, 
botheration take it,” said he and he rubbing. 

There are people like Daire who never admit to 
tears, no matter how kind-hearted they may be 
inside themselves. Maybe they do be thinking 
tears a sign of softness? It is hard to tell. 

“Will you come with me now, Daire, and we’ll 
be looking over the land?” Saint Patrick asked 
when together they had their emotions well in hand. 

“I will that. I’ll go along with you,” Daire 
said, making himself agreeable. 

So, off they started like lifelong friends between 



The Ridge of the Willows 219 


whom anger has never reared its head; several of 
Saint Patrick’s disciples following in their wake. 

A real Irish sky was in it that day. Blue like the 
eyes of a blue eyed and youthful angel, it was, for 
all the world. But from the ground the blue could 
only be seen in patches. It was the way the clouds 
hid most of it. That was no great pity, however, 
for the clouds were a sight for sore eyes of them¬ 
selves. Skins of snow-white fleece, they were, 
with here and there a cave of golden light let in. 
The sun lurking behind them gave that effect. 

Roofed by so much beauty, Saint Patrick felt 
over-joyed. The spring of youth returned to his 
step and he caught himself humming a snatch of a 
song. 

But, of a sudden, he spied a fawn lying all tired 
out in a clump of woods. Standing over the fawn 
with worried brown eyes was the hind, its mother. 
Daire saw it too at the same time. 

“Let us kill it,” he suggested. “Fawns make for 
fine eating.” 

“We’ll do no such thing.” Saint Patrick was 
firm about that. Going over to the fawn, he picked 
it up in his arms. 

“What are you going to do with it?” Daire 
wanted to know. 

“Carry it to a safe place where the wolves can’t 
come on it,” Saint Patrick replied. 

This he did, the hind following after him as if she 
sensed his kindness. 



220 


My Saint Patrick 


Now, is it not the strange and wonderful thing 
that where Saint Patrick set the fawn down 
stands today Ireland’s most magnificent cathedral, 
Armagh Cathedral? It is a miracle: that is all 
there is to it. 

Having performed the merciful deed, Saint Pat¬ 
rick, his disciples and Daire resumed their walk 
and presently were come to the Ridge of the Wil¬ 
lows. And what a hushed, peaceful spot it was! 
Only the low whisper of the wind-stirred willows 
disturbed the silence. Saint Patrick had chosen 
well the site to build his great house to Almighty 
God. 

“Do you plan to mark it out now?” Daire in¬ 
quired. 

“If ’twere midnight and snow flying, I don’t 
believe I could stop myself trying.” 

Saint Patrick accompanied his words with a 
chuckle at his own earnestness. 

“Och,” Daire sighed, “I should have given it to 
you when first you came asking for it, so I should.” 

“Maybe you would have taken it back the way 
you did the cauldron,” Saint Patrick joked. 

Daire smiled ruefully. 

“Wasn’t that the maddest thing a man ever did?” 
he said. “But let you start marking out now before 
night comes at a gallop around the corner to 
smother you in darkness the way you won’t be able 
to see one foot before the other.” 

Without another word Saint Patrick went to 




The hind following after him. 







1 




\ 







The Ridge of the Willows 223 


work. First, he laid out the ferta, the graveyard 
of the church. Circular in shape, he made it: its 
diameter being one hundred and forty feet. 
Twenty-seven of those feet he next marked out 
for the great house; then seventeen feet for the 
kitchen and seven feet for the oratory. That being 
done, he stepped back to view his work. 

“You’ve made the good job of it,” Daire compli¬ 
mented. 

Saint Patrick must have thought so too, for, 
ever afterwards, he built all his cloisters, all his 
convents, to the same scale. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


Leinster and Munster 


Swiftly flew the days as neatly to the last plank 
grew the nest of buildings at the Ridge of the 
Willows atop Ard-Macha. In what seemed no time 
at all everything was in readiness and Saint Pat¬ 
rick was summoning the first council meeting of 
the newly formed Irish Church. At this meeting 
Saint Patrick issued certain decrees, the most im¬ 
portant of which was the recognition of the Pope 
as the supreme head of the Catholic Church in 
Ireland. 

Another important decree was this: if any case 
should arise which the judges of Ireland were un¬ 
able to settle, that case was to be submitted to 
Saint Patrick at Ard-Macha, but if he in turn were 
unable to hand down a judgment, the case was 
then to be laid before the Pope; his decision to be 
final and binding. 

When the meeting was over, Issernius ap¬ 
proached Saint Patrick to ask help on a certain 
matter. 

To fully understand what that matter was, it 
is necessary to go back a bit. 

224 



Leinster and Munster 


225 


During the two years of Saint Patrick's absence 
from Ireland in Rome, Issernius and Auxilius, it 
seems, went into the provinces of North and South 
Leinster to win them for God. 

Great must have been their surprise to find a 
sprinkling of Christians there already. Palladius, 
they learned, had worked there, as also had his 
disciples, Sylvester and Benedictus. Still and all, 
the people of the Leinsters did noj: take kindly to 
Issernius and Auxilius. Issernius, they expelled 
altogether along with a tribe of his converts, the 
seven sons of a man named Cathbu. 

Thus it was to ask his help in re-establishing 
himself in the Leinsters that Issernius, after the 
council meeting, approached Saint Patrick. 

To all that he had to say, Saint Patrick lis¬ 
tened patiently and at the end of the doleful re¬ 
cital he gladdened Issernius' heart by promising 
to go into the Leinsters with him. 

Bennen, who was present, intervened, however. 
He would have it that Saint Patrick's place was at 
Ard-Macha, that he was no longer a young man 
to be traipsing the countryside and that he needed 
peace and rest from his long years of labor. 

But to that what Saint Patrick said was this: 
“Let you not be worrying yourself so, Bennen, I'll 
not die yet a while." And turning to Issernius he 
added, “I'll go with you as I said." 

Today, Leinster is not two but one province. 



226 


My Saint Patrick 


It embraces the midlands of Ireland and boasts 
its fair share of fertile land, lakes, rivers, hills, 
glens, plains and bogs from which the people 
thereabouts do be cutting turf for the fire and 
bracken for bedding in season. It is in Leinster 
that Dublin is and Kildare where Saint Brigid had 
her convent, and the best of Ireland’s salmon are 
to be caught there from the east bank of the river 
Shannon; it is often the way a fisherman has to 
take a horse and cart along to get his catch home 
at all, so big they are. All in all Leinster is a fair 
province. 

No doubt, although divided in two, it was the 
same in Saint Patrick’s time. Now, close by the 
modem town of Naas, the two princes of North 
Leinster, Ailill and Ilian, had their court. 

Journeying thither with Auxilius and Issernius, 
Saint Patrick learned from Auxilius that Ailill’s 
two daughters, the princesses Mogain and Fed- 
lem, were Christians and that it was the wish of 
their young lives to consecrate themselves to Jesus; 
that is to say, they wanted to become nuns. Natu¬ 
rally Saint Patrick wished to go to them without 
delay. 

This, however, Issernius and Auxilius fought 
against. Ailill, they feared, did not wish nuns for 
daughters and so would prove hostile. Let Saint 
Patrick first work his way among the chieftains 
of the province, they advised. In that way word of 



Leinster and Munster 


227 


him would reach the court and, perhaps, God will¬ 
ing, he would be invited there. 

“But that is not my way of doing things/’ Saint 
Patrick protested. “Whenever possible, I go first 
to the princes and kings that afterwards I may go 
freely among the chieftains and people.” 

But was this wise in this instance? It was. What 
happened was: Saint Patrick not alone helped 
Mogain and Fedlem take the veil but he converted 
Ailill and Ilian as well, besides winning parishes 
for Auxilius and Issernius. Sure, it is no idle talk; 
the world bows before the brave. 

Then, leaving Auxilius and Issernius to their 
parishes, Saint Patrick went off by himself into 
South Leinster. He had friends there. It was in 
South Leinster that Dubtach maccu-Lugir, the 
poet laureate, made his home; also living there 
was Fiacc, the younger poet, who with Dubtach 
maccu-Lugir rose in his standing before Saint Pat¬ 
rick on that memorable day of the contest of the 
miracles. 

As luck would have it, Dubtach maccu-Lugir 
was related to King Crimthann, ruler of the prov¬ 
ince, so that Saint Patrick had little difficulty in 
entering the royal palace at Rathvilly. 

Let Dubtach maccu-Lugir’s poem in honor of 
the occasion tell how he fared with King Crim¬ 
thann, his wife, Queen Mell, and his son, Prince 
Dathi— 



228 My Saint Patrick 

The King believed in Patrick without hard condi¬ 
tions. 

He received him as a chaste , a holy jriend at 
Rathvilly. 

The blessings which Patrick gave there never decay 
Upon beautiful Mel , upon Dathi and upon Crim - 
thann. 

Despite his great success, however, Saint Pat¬ 
rick found himself bothered. It was the way he 
had to find a bishop for the province. But where 
to find one? Bishops did not grow on the hedges. 
Talking the matter over with Dubtach maccu- 
Lugir, he pointed out that the man he needed 
must be of good family, good character and fine 
morals. 

“Fiacc is that man,” said Dubtach maccu-Lugir. 
At that very moment, Fiacc who had been away 
in Connaught, put in an appearance. 

“Come here, let you, Fiacc. Patrick is trying 
to make a bishop of me,” Dubtach maccu-Lugir 
called out jokingly. 

“To make a bishop of Dubtach would be to rob 
Ireland of her greatest poet,” cried Fiacc in alarm. 
a Let you make me a bishop instead, Bishop Patrick.” 
And so it was agreed. 

But Saint Patrick also sent into North Leinster 
for Issernius who was not happy there. He found 
happiness in South Leinster though, for he was an 
Irishman by birth and South Leinster was his na¬ 
tive province. 



Leinster and Munster 


229 


Leaving South Leinster, Saint Patrick went on 
into Munster. Never having been there before, 
he looked on it in the light of new ground to break 
for Jesus. In accordance with his usual policy, he 
went to Cashel, seat of Aengus, Munster’s king. 

But first a word of Munster. If Leinster be fair, 
Munster is twice as fair. Lying in the south it is, 
so to speak, Ireland’s heart; for in peace time, it 
beats slow and easy, is warm, friendly and hos¬ 
pitable, while in war time it beats fast and furious, 
is the cradle of fierce warriors and cunning states¬ 
men. But more than that, all music that is good 
music in Ireland comes from Munster and since 
music is a child of the heart, Munster must then 
be the heart of Ireland. It is in Munster that Cork 
is and in Cork people never talk, they sing their 
words, so happy and contented they are with 
their lot. Waterford is in Munster too, and it is in 
Waterford that Wallace, the composer of Maritana 
and many other lovely operas, was born. Wexford 
is next door to Waterford in Munster. The Wex¬ 
ford people have the fine song they do be singing 
off and on during the day. The Boys of Wexford , 
it is called. 

We are the boys of Wexford 
Who fought with heart and hand. 

is how it begins. Kerry is there in Munster also 
and golden Tipperary wherein lies Cashel, Saint 
Patrick’s destination. 

The morning of his arrival there was long to be 



230 


My Saint Patrick 


remembered, never to be forgotten. It was the way 
King Aengus woke up that morning to find his 
pagan idols fallen flat on their faces. 

“What can this portend? Am I about to be for¬ 
saken by the gods? To be overcome by my ene¬ 
mies? ” he asked himself and he in poor feather 
over such a state of things. 

Just then, however, he beheld an elderly man, 
his weight born by a strange twisted staff, coming 
towards him. 

“Who are you at all?” he asked bewilderedly. 

“Patrick is the name on me. And you, you are 
Aengus, son of Natfraich, King of Munster?” 

“I am. What is it you do be wanting?” 

“Your idols were down this morning?” 

“They were.” 

“ ’Tis that I have come to ease your mind about,” 
said Saint Patrick. 

This was no idle boast, for Aengus, after listen¬ 
ing to Saint Patrick a while, learned to love God. 
But it was how while baptising Aengus, Saint Pat¬ 
rick had an accident. His crozier slipped and 
pierced Aengus’ foot. Afterwards, noticing the 
blood, he asked Aengus why he had kept silent 
and not cried out. 

“I thought it part of the ceremony,” Aengus re¬ 
plied. 

“For that,” said Saint Patrick, “you will have 
your reward; not you nor your successors shall 
ever die of a wound.” 



Leinster and Munster 


231 


With Aengus for his first convert, Saint Patrick 
found the rest of Munster in a receptive mood. 
From north to south, from east to west, he cov¬ 
ered it and in his wake he left chapels and convents 
and bishops and priests and lay converts by the 
thousand. Oh, it is well known but too seldom 
said, the people of Munster had greater love for 
Saint Patrick than all the other people in Ireland 
put together! 

But a day came when he knew he must leave 
them. He felt a great tiredness coming over him 
and he remembered what Bennen had said about 
his no longer being a young man to be traipsing 
the countryside and how he needed peace and rest. 

Yet, tired and worn out though he was, Saint 
Patrick did not go without leaving the people of 
Munster his blessing which was this— 

Blessing on the people of Munster 
Men, women and children. 

Blessing on the land 
That gives them fruit. 

Blessing on every treasure 

That shall be produced on their plains , 

Without anyone in want of help, 

God J s blessing on Munster. 

Blessing on their mountain peaks, 

On their bare flagstones , 



232 


My Saint Patrick 


Blessing on their glens, 

Blessing on their ridges. 

Like sands of sea under ships, 
Be the number of their hearths; 
On slopes, on plains, 

On mountains, on peaks. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
Heaven Claims Its Own 


Sorrow, sad onus! sped through the air astride a 
coal black mare; spurred and unrelenting it went 
at a fast gallop over Ard-Macha’s sighing willows, 
brutally sawing the mare’s mouth as it prepared 
to dismount and quarter itself in the hearts of 
Saint Patrick’s disciples. It was Bennen who an¬ 
nounced its arrival, for to him it was given to break 
the dolorous tidings of Saint Patrick’s retirement 
as Archbishop of Ard-Macha because of failing 
health. 

Afterwards, the disciples stood about in small 
groups, talking in the low whispers Sorrow affects 
to hide the grim reality of its voice. 

“He’s worn himself out thin to the bone,” said 
one. 

“True for you, and the death of Secundinus 
pulled him down along with everything else,” said 
another. 

“Aye, and the death of his friend Dichu,” yet 
another would have it. 


233 



234 


My Saint Patrick 


“ ’Twas the work in Munster that weakened 
him so.” This from Sechell, a bishop from Baslic 
in Connaught. 

Then, this from a layman, studying for the 
priesthood: “Faith if you were to ask me, I’d say 
it was the winters on Slemish and he a boy that 
are telling against him now.” 

Followed by this from his neighbor: “There 
might be something in what you say. I’ve heard 
tell there were times when he scarce had a rag to 
his back.” 

And finally, “Well whatever brought it about ’tis 
on him now to our sorrow, God help us!” Sechell 
sighed. 

Meanwhile, Saint Patrick was closeted in his 
room with Bennen who was to succeed him as arch¬ 
bishop. Saint Patrick had aged considerably. His 
beard and hair were now all white like swansdown. 
His face was heavily lined. His eyes were back 
far in his head, grey as ever but less lively, and his 
voice, heretofore powerful and resonant, trembled 
a little, almost like a riverlet whose song is made 
weak by a stony bed. No two ways about it, his 
sixty-five years sat heavy on his shoulders. 

It was in his mind to go away to some lone place 
to prepare his soul for its great adventure, he was 
telling Bennen. 

Had he any place in mind, Bennen wanted to 
know. 

He had. He had poor Dichu’s territory and the 



Heaven Claims Its Own 235 

barn where he said his first mass in Ireland, in 
mind. 

But would Dichu’s kin be kind to him? 

Poor Bennen was heartbroken and he asking. 

They would; in fact Saint Patrick feared they 
would be too kind. 

When would he be leaving? 

Sure, he might as well start out the following 
day so as not to be in the way like a poor useless 
thing. 

Ochone, ochone, only one more day! His pent- 
up emotions getting the best of him, Bennen threw 
himself to his knees, burying his curly head in 
Saint Patrick’s lap and sobbing fiercely like a little 
child. 

Saint Patrick left him so. 

By tears alone could Sorrow be driven out. 

The Gaelic name for a barn is sabhall and it is 
pronounced, “saul.” This you want to know be¬ 
cause that part of Dichu’s territory where Saint 
Patrick’s barn stood came to be called Sabhall by 
the natives but the English, being unable to spell in 
Gaelic, marked it on the map as Saul when they 
conquered Ireland. 

One day, shortly after his arrival at Sabhall from 
ard-Macha, one of Dichu’s sons came to show Saint 
Patrick the pelt of a fox he had caught. But Saint 
Patrick was busy writing and it was the way he 
did not hear him come into the room at all. So 



236 


My Saint Patrick 


what did Dichu’s son do but creep up behind him 
and suddenly dangle the fox pelt before his eyes. 

“What in the world are you writing at at all that 
you can’t spare a minute for the the finest fox 
pelt in Ireland?” he cried. 

Saint Patrick looked up startled. 

“Och, you’ll be the death of me; you and your 
hunting and your strong smelling pelts,” he de¬ 
clared, beginning to chuckle. He dropped his quill 
then, resigning himself to the interruption. “If 
you must know what I’m writing, I’m writing my 
confession,” he said. 

‘'Writing your confession! ” 

Dichu’s son was a Christian but he had never 
heard tell of a written confession. His surprise 
was written all over him. 

“Oh, ’tis not that kind of confession,” Saint 
Patrick hastened to explain, “but an account of my 
work, of my life. Aye, and an apology for my great 
ignorance.” 

Wasn’t that last exquisite humility and the man 
after converting all Ireland? 

“Maybe you would be reading me a bit of it?” 
said Dichu’s son. 

“ ’Tis written in Latin. I’m afraid you would 
not understand it,” Saint Patrick replied. 

“That’s right. I have no knowledge of Latin, 
so I haven’t. Well, I’ll be saying good-bye 
now . . .” 

Giving Saint Patrick’s shoulder an affectionate 



Heaven Claims Its Own 


237 


squeeze by way of finishing his sentence, Dichu’s 
son took himself off to dry the fox pelt. 

Somewhat in that manner did Saint Patrick 
pass his days, every day writing as much as his 
failing strength would permit, every day praying 
for hours on end and every day being cared for 
and cheered in his heart by Dichu’s kin who loved 
him mightily. 

At last, the Confession was finished. And a 
grand document it was too! As many as three cen¬ 
turies later, Ferdomach, the scribe was to copy it 
into the famous book of Armagh and as many as 
fifteen centuries later it was to be found in libraries 
the world over both in Latin and in English, for 
Cannon White of Dublin was to spend many the 
long day of his life translating it. 

But now Saint Patrick’s days on earth were rap¬ 
idly drawing to a close. He himself was fully 
aware of that. The Archangel Victor had appeared 
to him in a vision, telling him so. Certain then 
that the end was not far off, he felt a great longing 
to return to Ard-Macha. He would rather close 
his eyes there than at Sabhall, he thought. So he 
sent messengers to Bennen asking for an escort 
for the journey. 

Within seven days a group of his former disciples 
arrived. 

But it was not meant that Saint Patrick should 
ever again set eyes on Ard-Macha. What happened 
was: he had gone but a little way along the road 



238 


My Saint Patrick 


when his passage was blocked by a burning bush. 
Usually such a happening meant young lads hav¬ 
ing a lark. But this bush, although it flamed 
fiercely, was not consumed. Like the bush Moses 
saw in the time gone, it was, for all the world. 
Presently, an angel appeared by it. 

“Why do you set yourself to this journey with¬ 
out word from the Archangel Victor?” he inquired. 

“Is it to tell me not to make it you are here?” 
Saint Patrick asked humbly. 

And the angel replied, “Go back in your steps 
that the petitions you made in your prayers may 
be granted you, that your jurisdiction may forever 
be over Ard-Macha, that the people of Ireland 
may be judged by you on Judgment Day and that 
Dichu’s kin, who have treated you with kindness, 
may receive mercy and not perish.” 

Saint Patrick sighed. A faint but obedient, so 
be it, followed from his lips. 

As mysteriously as he came, the angel departed. 

Without speaking a word to his disciples whose 
hearts bled for him, Saint Patrick faced about in 
his tracks. On the way, he aged ten years, ’tis 
said, and his legs went back on him so that on ar¬ 
riving at Sabhall he had to be carried to his couch. 

A short while later, he asked for Holy Com¬ 
munion. 

Bishop Tassacht, a disciple who once had been 
his carpenter, gave it to him while all the other 



_ Heaven Claims Its Own 239 

disciples knelt about the bedside, tears streaming 
from them and they praying fiercely. 

Afterwards, he slept. 

Night came down black and somber the while. 
The owls abroad in the trees started their weird 
screeching, the wolves howled hungrily and the 
sheep on the mountainsides baa-ed their fear. Sud¬ 
denly these noises were hushed by the sheen and 
majesty of a company of angels sweeping earth¬ 
ward. Then Saint Patrick’s room was suffused 
with a dazzling light. His disciples drew back 
from the bedside, each shielding his eyes in the 
crook of his elbow. 

Presently, it was given to them to see. Startled, 
awed they looked about, their eyes coming to rest 
on the low couch by the window. As one man their 
grief burst from them in keening and wailing 
terrible to hear. 

The angels had taken Saint Patrick to Jesus. 





* 





BIBLIOGRAPHY 


I am deeply indebted to the following authorities 
for much of the material from which, My Saint 
Patrick, has been drawn: 

Beda Venerabilis, The Venerable Bede's Ecclesiastical His¬ 
tory of England. Also the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. 
Edited by John Allen Giles. Bell and Daly, London, 
1871. 

Belloc, Hilaire, A Shorter History of England, The Mac¬ 
millan Co., New York, 1934. 

Bury, John Bagnell, The Life of Saint Patrick and His 
Place in History, The Macmillan Co., London, 1905. 

- The Itinerary of Patrick in Connaught according to 

Tirechan. (Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy. 
V. 24. Sect. C. Archael and pages 153-168.) 

Concannon, Helena, Saint Patrick, His Life and Mission. 
Longmans Green & Co., Ltd., 1931. 

Crossjean, Paul, Recent Research on the Life of Patrick. 
Thought. New York, 1930. 4o. v. 5, June, pages 
22-41. 

Figgis? Harrell, The Return of the Hero. With an introduc¬ 
tion by James Stephens. C. Boni, New York, 1930. 

Giles, John Allen, Six Old English Chronicles of Which 
Two Are now Translated for the First Time from the 
Monkish Latin Originals. Edited with illustrative notes 
by J. A. Giles. H. G. Bohn, London, 188. 

Heron, James, The Celtic Church in Ireland; story of Ire¬ 
land and Irish Christianity from before the time of 
Patrick to the Reformation. Service & Paton, 1898, 
London. 

Johnson & Spenser, Ireland's Story, Houghton Mifflin Co., 
Boston, 1932. 


241 



242 


Bibliography 


Letts, Winifred M., Saint Patrick, the Travelling Man, The 
Story of His Life and Wanderings. Nicholson and 
Watson, London, 1932. 

MacCall, Seamus, And So Began the Irish Nation. The 
Talbot Press, Ltd., Dublin and Cork, 1931. 

MacManus, Seamus, The Career of Saint Patrick. Catholic 
World. New York. 1921. 8o. v. 112, pages 755-770. 

O’Leary, James, The Most Ancient Lives of Saint Patrick, 
including the Life by Jocelin, hitherto unpublished in 
America, and his extant writings. P. J. Kennedy, New 
York, 1891. 

O’Neill, Eoin, Saint Patrick, Apostle of Ireland. Sheed and 
Ward, London, 1934. 

- The Native Place of Patrick. Proceedings of the 

Royal Irish Academy. Dublin, 1926. 4o. v. 37. Section 
C. Pages 118-140. 

Rolleston, T. W., Saint Patrick, His Faith & Works. Nine¬ 
teenth Century and After. New York, 1919. 80. v. 112. 
Pages 755-770. 

Stokes, Whitley, The Tripartite Life of Patrick with Other 
Documents Relating to that Saint. Edited with trans¬ 
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the authority of the Lords’ Commissioners of Her 
Majesty’s Treasury, under the direction of the Master 
of the Rolls. Printed by Eyre and Spottiswood for Her 
Majesty’s Stationery Office. London, 1887. 

Swift, Edmund L., Jocelyn’s Life and Acts of Saint Patrick. 
Edited by Edmund L. Swift with the elucidations of 
David Rothe. Printed by J. Blyth for the Hibernia 
Press, Dublin, 1809. 

Walpole, Charles George, The Kingdom of Ireland. Harp¬ 
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White, Newport, J. D., Saint Patrick, His Life and Writings. 
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The Macmillan Co., New York, 1920. 

Wood-Martin, W. G., Traces of Elder Faith in Ireland; pre- 
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I should also like to make public my indebtedness 
to Mrs. Jaime Wagener, librarian of the Great 




Bibliography 


243 


Neck Library, Long Island, N.Y., to Mrs. Henry 
Kellett Chambers, also of Great Neck, whose sug¬ 
gestions proved invaluable and to the Reverend 
P. J. Temple, S.T.D., Director of the Mission of 
Our Lady of the Rosary, 7 State Street, New York 
City, New York. 















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































